


The Tangled Web

by wordybirdy



Series: From Trifle to Infinity [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst and Humor, Drama, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-08 06:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/440297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matters of betrayal, murder and family converge to test Holmes's resolve to its limits.  H&W established relationship.  </p><p>The story takes place in April 1888, approximately three months after the events recalled in 'The Width of a Circle'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sprouting Shoots

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _Warning:_**  
>  From Chapter 7 onwards, do please be aware of flying angst. Readers of a sensitive disposition may wish to turn away. Happy endings do ensue. Normal service resumes from there on within the 'Trifle' saga. I stoically accept all and any scoldings, spankings, stern looks, thrown cabbages. Mmmm, cabbages. __

The ring has drawn no speculation. It has no engraving, no message or endearment to implicate us. I wear it upon the third finger of my right hand, and the embedded diamond refracts well even in the wan of this April afternoon. The year is 1888. Three months ago saw the marriage of Holmes's elder brother, Mycroft, to the exceptional Sophronia Guillory. They retain fond contact with us still – the letters written in the lady's hand – and my friend replies, when he has sufficient time and inclination. After our own, smaller rite, I wear my cherished diamond ring, and Holmes his amethyst partner to it on the matching finger of his own hand. And now I watch him from my recline on our sofa, as he sits at his desk to compose a reply to the freshest communication from our gracious sister-in-law.

“You have written almost an entire half a page,” I observed. “Did Sophronia ask so many questions? I understood that it was but a brief note of invitation?”

Holmes looked up from the inkpot, his pen poised halfway. He motioned to the original letter which lay upon the side table near by my lounging spot.

“Read it,” said he. “And then tell me what you can deduce from the handwriting.”

“Likely very little,” I replied, with a meek smile. “Unlike you, I am unable to tell a person's mood from their capital letters or their general health from the arc of a parenthesis.”

My friend tutted and fluttered his fingers as encouragement that I should do my best with what my poor brain could conjure anyhow. I unfolded the sheet and glanced over the words within. I re-read and frowned. I brought the paper up to my face and inhaled. I turned it over and examined the rear. I placed it back down beside me then, and looked to Holmes who sat waiting expectantly.

“Sophronia was in great haste,” I said – proud of determining this much, at the least. “For several of the words are joined one to the other, as if she had scarcely time to lift her pen from the page. Um. One corner is creased and slightly torn... possibly by the postman. Er. The inkwell was in need of replenishing, for the impression fades towards the end. The paper smells of vanilla pods... therefore the dear lady must have been baking just prior to composing her letter.” I came to a triumphant halt. There was surely no further data to be gleaned. I had captured it all. I looked to my friend in some eagerness for his approval.

Holmes closed his eyes. If I did not know him better then I should have sworn that he was slowly counting from one to three.

“Watson,” said he, “you have, of course, missed most everything of importance and observed a hotchpotch of inconsequence. We already know that Sophronia's hand races ahead of her brain. We already _know_ that she is absent-minded and also that she enjoys spending time in her kitchen with her flour and her currants.”

“Well, I am sorry,” I replied, somewhat heatedly, “but you asked me what I could deduce, Holmes, and that was what I was able to find.” I glanced at the paper again. “I have not studied the art of graphology, after all,” I added.

“If you had, then you would have noticed the curl of the 'l' and the loop of the 'y' and the 'g',” said my friend. “They are most expressive.”

“What do they express, then?”

“Something has happened,” said he. “I should not like to say any more than that, for the time being.”

“You are infuriating,” I said. “I sincerely hope that it is not a misfortune.”

“So, we are invited to a dinner where all shall be revealed. Most likely, very slowly. Like pulling a tooth that clings fast to the gum,” my friend continued. He blotted his letter, sealed it within a small envelope and addressed it. Having done so, he rose from his desk chair and moved to join me upon the sofa. He nudged me with his thin shoulder and scuffled my boot with his right foot.

“Don't be an ogre, Watson. You know how I like to set you these tests.”

“Yes,” I replied, “I certainly _do_ know. For your amusement and disdain rather than any useful purpose, it would seem.”

Holmes huffed. He grasped my hand, raised it to his lips and dealt it a swift kiss.

“What is the matter?” he asked softly. “You have been out of sorts these past couple of days, and you won't tell me why.”

It is difficult to tell when you yourself are unsure.

“Gregson and Victor are in Paris,” I offered, finally, which was perhaps a small part of the whole.

Holmes rolled his eyes.

“I imagine they will see little of it besides the ceiling of their hotel bedroom,” said he.

I laughed despite myself. “That is true. I do want us to visit there some day, Holmes.”

“And so we shall. Goodness me, is that all it is? I have been so extraordinarily busy these last few months, you _know_ that, and whoever would want to go to Paris in the _Winter_ \--”

“Spring,” I interrupted.

“Oh, _Spring_ then,” he amended, with a shake of his head. “Whether it is Winter or Spring, it is still wet and it is still cold.”

“I want us to see a little more of the world than Baker Street and London,” I said. “And I want to see more of _you_ than a flashing shadow in the morning and a limp ghost in the evening.”

“A _limp_... ghost?”

“It is how you become when you are working on one long complex case after another,” I said, quite aware that by now I was sounding irritated and complaining when really I had had no intention of broaching the subject at all. These feelings came and went and usually swiftly, and I had no right to worry my friend with them, with his heavy caseload being as it was.

“You wish me to give up my work and for us to travel,” said Holmes in a tone of disbelief.

“No, not that. I don't know.” I rubbed my eyes and rested my head against the sofa cushions. “I don't want for you to have to turn down cases,” I added. “But on the frequent occasions of late when it is not required for me to accompany you, then I do rather begin to gnaw at the walls.”

“Now you are just beginning to sound like a dispirited wife,” my friend observed, his brows knotted. “I confess that I am at a loss, John. I have no comparison or experience that informs me how I should react or what to say at this juncture to put things right. It has all been since Mycroft's wedding, has it not? The strange thing is, at the time it was me who was in the mess, rather than you.”

“I am not in any mess,” I said. I had no wish for our conversation to escalate into a row, so I headed upstairs to our bedroom; the room that only two years ago had been mine alone in which to brood and dream. I lay back against the coverlet. Tucking my hands as a prop behind my head I gazed at the line of rooftops just visible from the window. Downstairs, I heard Holmes tune his violin; commence to scrape at the strings with his bow. The sound was jarring to me; I might have called out for him to cease if he had not done so of his own accord a brief minute later. My ears strained for further sound but there was none. Instead I listened to the ticking of the bedside clock, the occasional carriage rattle from the back-street and the patter of the drizzle upon the window pane. I decided that it must be my quandaried digestion or the irritation of my old shoulder wound that was causing my malaise, and not to pay it further mind. Drifting off into a doze, when I awoke the room was grey and quite considerably cooler. The rain had stopped, yet the wind whistled plaintively down the narrow chimney.

I felt a stirring at my back – for I had turned over onto my side while in fitful slumber. At some point Holmes had joined me, for he lay now, his breathing soft and rhythmic on my nape. I reached back and lay a hand upon him, kneading the lean muscle of his thigh in its warm fabric.

“Are you all right?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes.”

“John, I'm sorry if I--”

I twisted round to face him, to cover his lips with mine and kiss him deeply. He made a small noise, whether surprise or surrender I could not tell, but he did return my kiss and his cheekbones were high-spotted when we eventually broke apart. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but I kissed away the words with softer pecks.

“Tell me about Satterthwaite, then,” I said, “and what you found at the bottom of his well.”

“Oh, that,” said my friend. “That case is almost through, and although somewhat exhausting is hardly worth your writing up.” He withdrew and rested his head against the pillow. “The esteemed Mr. Satterthwaite was conducting an unpalatable trade in good luck charms and aphrodisiacs, as I believe I told you before. Rabbits' paws, powder pouches, various distasteful sections of unidentifiable animals... all obtained via dubious means, and thrown down the well when the gentleman realised that he was at imminent risk of exposure. Scotland Yard recovered the lot at my suggestion, and all we need do now is track down Satterthwaite. That should be elementary.”

“I am glad that it is almost through,” I mumbled, still a little drowsy. “What else is there?”

“The jewel theft at Widow Tamzelle's... the disappearance of old Henry Hope's brother... that is all at the present, although Lestrade has hinted at other matters.” He yawned. “Tomorrow being Monday, perhaps we might grasp the tail of what he has been ferreting away at so unsuccessfully.” Then a pause. “You would wish for me to turn the work down?”

“ _No_ , but please, my love, do not run yourself into the ground from all of it. Can I help in any way? Would you like for me to accompany you on the search for Satterthwaite?”

“Perhaps. You know, John, that you are only just fully recovered from your prolonged spell of influenza, and it would have been most unwise for me to drag you along on all of my outings...”

“I know.”

“Well, I have replied to Sophronia that we shall attend their dinner on Wednesday evening. I have not seen inside of Mycroft's house for a considerable while. I imagine that it has changed a great deal with a woman's touch.”

“Yes, things generally do,” I replied.

Holmes peered at me, but said nothing. Presently we rose to straighten our shirts and wash in time for dinner. A large dish of baked trout with spring vegetables, and a bottle of excellent Soave put us both back into good spirits. Afterwards, we cracked handfuls of walnuts and smoked cigars. I read to my friend from several of Poe's short stories, and so it was that we whiled away the evening. As we lay abed again that night, I stroked his hair while he slept. Listening to his breathing, anchoring his hip as if he might float away if I did not hold in some way onto him; for such things are night fears made of.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, we were delicate around each other once again. Apologetic over the coffee pot, the last square of toast, the accidental collide en route to the hat stand. We spoke little on the train and even less inside the hansom on our way to corner Satterthwaite in his lair (the fellow surrendered without a great deal of fuss). We accompanied Inspector Lestrade back to his offices, and sat on hard-backed chairs to pay attention while he told us of how exceedingly trying the work was at the moment, and how extremely under-staffed his team was.

“Gregson simply could not have chosen a poorer time to take his vacation,” complained the Inspector. “Swanning off around Paris when there's important work to be done here. Inconsiderate, I call it.”

“I assure you that he is quite likely sprouting shoots by now,” said my friend. “I understand Paris to be as torrential as London.”

“In that case, I hope he took a book or two with him,” replied Lestrade. “Thank you again for helping us collar that rogue Satterthwaite, Mr. Holmes. He has been a thorn in our side for a good many months.”

“What do you have on at present?”

“Well, we were blind-sided by a fellow named Chapple, who robbed several stores very recently and assaulted one of my officers. He appears not to be from the city, however, for my constable reports that the accent was a strange one, and the man's garb more of the rural sort. He managed to make his getaway, although we arrested his young accomplice, which was how we found out his name. However, the accomplice says that he knows nothing of the fellow's current whereabouts, and in fact had only met him for the first time the other week. So I don't see how you could possibly help us there, Mr. Holmes, for that might not even be the true name of this crook.”

“Possibly not,” said Holmes, with a yawn.

“I am sorry, Mr. Holmes, are we keeping you up?”

My friend would have replied but for my interjection.

“Holmes has been exceptionally busy,” I informed the Inspector. “We have two cases at the moment – a jewel theft and an unfortunate disappearance – which I expect will take a week at least to draw to their conclusions. Unless the case you have is of a great urgency...”

“Thank you, Watson,” said my friend, a little sharply. Then, to the Inspector: “I shall, of course, be happy to look into anything you might care to pass my way, Lestrade.” He flashed me a reproachful look.

We emerged from Scotland Yard ten minutes later, with the promise of a week's recall unless a dire emergency arose in the interim. Holmes strode ahead of me, clearly annoyed.

“So you are turning down cases on my account now,” said he from over his shoulder in a tight, clipped tone.

“Only out of care for your well-being,” I said, struggling to keep up. “What with Widow what's-her-name and the other fellow I can't recall, your time is more than taken up, and--”

“Yes,” said Holmes, taking pity on me finally and dropping back to walk beside me once again. “Yes. Well, at any rate, Watson, before I pick up the case of Widow what's-her-name for what's left of this dismal afternoon, I should rather like to drop by my tailor and collect my new suit for this dinner on Wednesday. So come now, my boy, pick up your pace and let us get out from under this rain.”

And we crossed the streaming gutters and sidestepped the crowds with their umbrellas, and sheltering as a pair beneath my own device, wound up arm-in-arm at our destination without being too drenched out of our skins.


	2. Damn the Soup

Holmes's first case seemed to progress remarkably well. By Tuesday morning he had concluded that the widow's jewel theft was an insurance fraud. The Tuesday afternoon saw my friend retrieve the lustrous emeralds, pearls and rubies, and be berated most ferociously by a thwarted and wailing old woman. He returned home and exhibited to me his left coat sleeve, much muddied.

“She swiped at me with her walking stick,” said he, in wry indignation.

“She scored a direct hit,” I replied, brushing away the dried flakes. “Hell hath no fury...”

“Yes, exactly,” said my friend. “I suppose I should be grateful that she did not make aim for my skull.”

I followed him upstairs as he shucked off his jacket and his waistcoat and tipped some water into the washbowl to clean his hands and face. I sat on the bed, wistfully admiring the handsome shape of him from my vantage point: the ripple beneath the shirt and the narrow cinch of belted waist; the inviting curve below it.

I glanced up and saw Holmes eyeing me from the reflection of the mirror.

“I am done in,” he said. He shook the water drops from his hands and reached for a towel.

I looked at my watch.

“It is five-thirty, just,” I said. “Perhaps if you lay down now, you will feel rested later.”

“If I lay down now, then my work will never get done,” said Holmes. “I have received an answer to my wire regarding the disappearing brother, and I must send out two more.”

He turned away from the bowl and opened the wardrobe to forage for a clean shirt.

My head did battle with my prick – which is quite as uncomfortable as it sounds – as to whether I should chance my luck or leave him with his clean shirt and his telegrams.

He had turned and caught my stupid wavering expression, for he shook his head as he snapped shut the wardrobe door, fresh shirt in hand.

“I know that look,” he said. He removed his shirt, his back to me. “Oh damn the woman, my arm is covered in bruises.”

I stood, resigned.

“Shall I tell Mrs. Hudson that we will be dining in this evening?” I asked.

“Yes. Although I have very little appetite, I could manage some soup, I think.”

I left him to his dress to relay the request to our diligent landlady.

When I returned to our quarters, Holmes was sitting at his writing desk. He completed several telegraph forms which were speedily despatched, then throwing himself into his chair by the fire, he surrounded himself with textbooks and foolscap and settled to his study.

“I do believe I need a hobby,” I noted dolefully, at a loss how as to best occupy myself.

“I am sure that there are many hundreds from which to choose,” my friend replied, distracted, “but I would draw the line at learning the trombone.”

I watched as his pencil flew busily over the paper. He seemed to be drawing a series of strange symbols, with triangles and circles and lines which crossed one to the other. His foot tapped upon the rug in concentration; the tip of his tongue extruded from a corner of his mouth as he made his scribble. At length, he sighed wearily and leaned back in his chair.

“You have been observing me for fully twenty minutes,” he complained. “What is it? Is the soup ready?”

“Damn the soup,” I said, suddenly determined to speak my mind. “Holmes, are we ever going to...” I motioned vaguely, “...again?”

He looked at me. “We...” and here he imitated my gesture, “...last month.”

“It feels like a year.”

He smirked. “Many married couples do not manage as often as that.”

“Well, when this case of the disappearing fellow is over then I shall be claiming arrears,” I said.

“I shall settle in full,” said he, “I do promise you.” 

It was then with her customary excellent timing that Mrs. Hudson brought through two steaming bowls of fresh leek and potato soup, and a small basket of warm bread rolls. Happily, it is difficult to think amorously of anyone while they are supping noisily from a spoon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Holmes received his telegram responses by early the next morning. With loud exclamations and tutting, he touched my shoulder and informed me that he hoped to return by midday. It appeared that not all had gone as intended, for he balled one of the replies and tossed it into the fire. He did not finish his breakfast but hurried away down the stairs, and I peered from the window to see him flag down a hansom. Pouring my third cup of tea, I helped myself to a second helping of fried eggs and bacon.

True to his word, Holmes was back by twelve-thirty, but rather down in the dumps as he threw off his coat and let it land where it might.

“Did things not go well?” I enquired.

“No,” said he, flatly. “Hope's brother was found dead in a ditch at first light. Alcohol and an overdose of a narcotic, self-administered. Not the outcome that I was hoping for, but perhaps to be expected given his dissolute lifestyle.”

He remembered something then and picked up his coat, where he rummaged through the pockets. A moment later, he produced a single long-stemmed red rose which he proffered a little nervously.

“For you,” he said.

I accepted it, deeply touched. It was the first flower he had ever given.

“It is not from the ditch,” he added, with a frown of concern. “I bought it.”

I laughed, shaking my head at him.

“I know, Holmes. Thank you, it is very beautiful. Come here.”

I pulled him towards me and kissed him. He smelled of fresh air and grass, of clean sweat and faint tobacco. (Of all my senses, the one of scent is the most acute.) 

“Do you actually have the afternoon free?” I asked.

He pulled back with a slight smile.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. How would you wish to spend it? Barring that which would be terribly unwise?”

I smiled. “I am sure that we shall find something suitably innocuous to do.”

And I placed my precious bloom into an empty test tube on the rack, and made a mental note to later seek out heavy volumes, with which that I might press it for a keepsake.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

At seven o'clock we were standing in front of the grand entrance to the house of Mycroft and Sophronia Holmes. I had never visited it prior to this date, and I confess that I was much looking forward to the opportunity. Holmes stood by my side and gnawed at his lip. He rang the bell.

An immaculately dressed butler answered our summons and invited us in. We dallied in the hall while he took our hats and coats, to then usher us through to the grand drawing room to await our hosts. Tall, polished wooden pillars and a high, intricate coved ceiling; furnishings of plum velvet with a darkwood floor. I looked around in admiration.

“This one room is as large as the sum of our quarters together,” I said to my friend.

“Hmm, yes,” he replied. “They must rattle around here like a pair of dried peas.” His sharp eyes roved the room. “ _Peach_ ,” said he, in distaste, pointing to the fabric of the cushions and the twill of the rugs.

“Sophronia's touch?”

“So it would seem, unfortuna-- oh good evening, my dear.”

Holmes delivered a chivalrous kiss to the extended hand of Mrs. Holmes. Mischievous lady, she had entered without a sound. She regarded him with good humour as he withdrew.

“I feel peach to be _infinitely_ preferable to fuchsia pink, Sherlock, I'm sure you would agree?” said she, with a smile. “John! How lovely to see you again. I hope you are both well.”

“We are indeed,” I said, greeting the lady in similar fashion as my friend. “You keep a most stunning décor here.”

She dipped her head in modest delight.

“It was mostly here when I arrived,” said she. “I did not have to add very much; just a few items of colour and some lacework.” 

She extended her hands then, and made for the hall door.

“I shall tell my husband that you are here, and we shall take cocktails before dinner.”

Left alone once more, temporarily, Holmes and I glanced at one another.

“So what can have happened?” I wondered. “Do you know, Holmes?”

He shrugged.

“The letter was suggestive, but I should not like to say in advance of the facts. Well, at any rate, I do not intend to hang around here while brother Mycroft takes an eternity to prune his whiskers. Come, Watson, let me give you a guided tour.”

“But, should we not wait for – ?”

He grasped my hand and dragged me back into the hall. Opening one of the side doors he pushed me in ahead of him. It was the library, with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a great many plump, stuffed sofas and armchairs in expensive, muted colours. At the far end stood a baby grand piano.

“A piano!” I exclaimed. “I was not aware that either Mycroft or Sophronia could play.”

“Well, Mycroft is unable to, I know that much,” replied my friend. “He has had the piano for years, as I recall. It is there just to impress the gullible minded.”

“Oh, thank you...”

He patted my backside.

“I was not referring to you. This room is vulgar. Just look at the titles of some of the books here; all ostentation. Volumes that my brother has no intention of ever reading. What a waste of precious binding and ink.”

Holmes swept me across to a side door of the room, and rattled its handle.

“Damn,” said he. “That is Mycroft's study, and he has locked it.”

“I am not at all surprised,” I said dryly. “He knew that you were coming, after all.”

“I shall get into it later,” said Holmes.

From the library, we crossed into an elegant sitting-room where Sophronia had evidently cast her greater influence. Delicate flower-patterned wallpaper, numerous small and tasselled rugs, and a great many plants with ponderous green leaves. A wood fire blazed; I stood in front of it to warm my hands. Holmes examined several of the paintings on the walls in surprised appreciation.

“A Waterhouse!” said he. “It is quite lovely.”

“When were you here last?” I asked him.

Again, he shrugged.

“Years ago,” he offered, vaguely. “We were never inclined to any degree of socialising outside of the necessary.”

“Families are all so very different,” I mused. “I miss my own brother. We were very close. I wish he were still alive.”

Holmes's arm curled around me briefly. “Let us return to the drawing room,” he said. “I think that perhaps Mycroft might have descended by now.”

The elder brother was indeed now in situ, standing upon one of the rectangular peach rugs in a quiet conversation with his wife. He turned around as we entered and frowned at my friend.

“Here you are at last,” said he. “Why you cannot stay in the one spot instead of skittering around like a lost beetle, I shall never know. Good evening, Doctor,” he nodded in my direction.

“I merely wished to observe how the old house had changed,” said Holmes. “Don't be tedious, Mycroft, and pour John a drink, he is gasping.”

I might have protested that last, but I was immediately charged with a tumbler of something sweet and delicious and chinking with ice. We sat in a broken semi-circle in front of the hearth and toasted each other, for life, health and vitality. The conversation was courteous, yet never touching upon the true reason that Holmes believed had brought us here. I watched his keen gaze flicker from the one to the other of them, and I for my part did the same, so curious as I was to find out more. Mycroft appeared anxious, I think, although Sophronia carried her usual serenity, smiling often and introducing topics which I supposed she felt might be of interest to us all. My friend discussed his most recent cases, but in the very vaguest terms; for once he had concluded work on one he soon forgot the greater detail of it, ever eager to move on and to the next. I confessed that my health had been a little tried of late, but that I was now back to fighting fitness. Sophronia made soft clucks of concern. I found myself thinking again how darling a woman she was, and how exceptionally fortunate Mycroft had been to have made her his wife.

There came a natural interlude whereby Sophronia excused herself to visit the kitchen and the cook preparing dinner. The three of us eyed one another.

“So, Mycroft, what is it?” asked my friend.

“What is what? Sherlock, do have another drink, why don't you.”

“I shall,” replied Holmes. “And then I intend on taking another look around your library, if you don't consider that to be too impolite of me.”

“You are quite welcome to. Dinner will be thirty minutes at the least.”

Inside the imposing room once again, Holmes turned to me and pressed a finger to his lips. He walked to the study door and tested the handle. This time, it turned and the door opened inwards.

“Oh ho,” said my friend. “Mycroft was in here earlier, then, while we were elsewhere in the house.”

“Holmes, why do you want to look inside Mycroft's study, of all places? I am fairly certain that he would not like it.”

Holmes huffed a dry chuckle.

“For the same reason that I know he would look in mine, if I possessed one.”

“Well, that is a confusing explanation,” I said, as I followed my friend through into the smaller oak panelled room.

A large desk stood within the centre, with two luxurious leather chairs in front, and what I might only describe as a throne placed behind it, also composed of the richest brown leather. The desk was devoid of paper, furnished only with two inkstands and a rack of fine nibbed pens. Holmes's attention, however, had been drawn to the safe in the corner. With an expression of what I could only describe as quiet glee upon his face, he experimentally turned the dial and stroked the handle.

“What are you _doing?_ ” I hissed.

He looked up at me and winked.

“The opening of safes is a particular hobby of mine,” said he.

“Yes, I am well aware of that, but for heaven's sake, Holmes, you can't simply --”

“It is idle curiosity, nothing more.”

“But Holmes, great heavens, my dear fellow, this is your brother's _private safe_ , he will be furious.”

“If I am quick enough about it then he will never know. Like as not he only keeps his sandwiches in here.”

My friend set to tinkering, drawing from the inside pocket of his jacket a small pouch of tools. My jaw dropped in disbelief.

“You brought those with you... in your evening dress...”

He tutted at my obtuseness. “I carry them everywhere with me, Watson. Who knows when I might be called upon to unhook a latch as a favour, or release a stubborn window frame?”

“Or crack open a fellow's safe,” I said, resignedly. I sat down upon one of the leather chairs and watched him work. It did not take very long at all – for Holmes was a master of his craft – and the metal door swung quietly open. Holmes exclaimed in quiet satisfaction.

“There is very little in here,” he whispered, “just a few sheets of paper, and this manila folder here.”

I heard him riffle through the contents. Just when I thought he was surely through and we might return to the safety of the drawing room, he let out a strangled gasp.

“Oh dear god,” said he, but barely audible now. “Oh dear god.”

And he turned back to me, and his face was drained white.


	3. Betrayal

“What is it?” I whispered. “Holmes, what is it? What have you found?”

He rose slowly from his crouch at the open safe, still clutching the sheaf of papers from the folder. Staring at them and yet unseeing, his eyes glazed over. I had to repeat my entreaty several times before he turned his head to me.

“It is betrayal, John,” said he. His voice was bewildered, as if he had seen something so fantastical that it could scarcely be believed.

“Betrayal? By who? Of whom?”

He thrust the papers back into the safe, the better to get them away from him, that they might be toxic should he hold onto them any longer.

“I think that you need to go home alone,” he said, swinging the metal door shut and replacing his tools in their pouch.

“But why?” My voice rose higher in agitation. “Holmes, please tell me what has happened, I beg you.”

He gestured to the safe; threw his hands up.

“Go home,” he repeated.

With not another word spoken he strode from the room. I heard him re-enter the drawing room, whereupon there was deadly silence. I followed as far as the hall and then dithered, conflicted. I stepped close to the door and inclined my ear flat to the panel. Mycroft was speaking, but alas I was unable to make out his words. As I endeavoured to listen, it was unfortunate that Sophronia Holmes chose that moment to re-enter from the far door to the kitchen. 

“John,” said she in surprise, “why ever are you hanging at the door like that?”

“Something has happened,” I said. “I fear that there may be an argument, my dear. Perhaps you should retire to the sitting-room for the present.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” she replied, indignant. “Oh, those two, they are always at each other's throats.”

“I believe this to be rather more serious than the usual,” I admitted. “I have never seen Holmes so affected. He... found some papers. I do not know what they contained, but he rushed straight through to speak with Mycroft.”

“Papers? From where?”

I hesitated. “From the safe in Mycroft's study,” I said, flushing very slightly.

“From the _safe?_ ” 

I nodded, miserable. From the drawing room I could now hear my friend's voice, raised in volume so that I could make out fractured segments: “... _Hayward, of all people... where is he now... Mycroft, I swear that_...”

I withdrew guiltily for having heard even so little. I turned to Sophronia.

“Do you know anyone by the name of Hayward?” I enquired.

She shook her head, her eyes wide. “I do not think so,” she replied. “No, the name is not familiar.”

“I am not certain if I should go in there,” I said. “But I feel utterly useless cast out here in the hall.”

“Come along with me, then, for a few minutes,” said she.

The lady led me to the sitting-room, where we sat down side by side and exchanged supportive smiles.

“I am worried,” I said. “Holmes insisted that I should go home immediately.”

“Oh dear, that does sound a little alarming.” 

She grimaced and rubbed distractedly at her abdomen.

“You are unwell?” I asked, concerned.

“Just a slight stomach-ache,” said she. “I may have drunk a little too much lemonade. And arguments always upset me.”

I laid my hand across the top of hers as comfort. I did my best to assure her that everything would be all right and that the dispute – if that was what it was – would be resolved before very long. Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding. Words in print are so often open to misinterpretation, after all. Five minutes further elapsed until I could bear the strain no longer, and stood up with an apology that I felt I must depart to see what had happened with my friend. The hall was quiet, still. I tapped shortly at the door to the drawing room and entered without answer.

The two men were standing together by the velvet draped bay window. A large chest of drawers to the one side had been opened, and my friend was examining a small paper most intently. They looked up at my entrance with expressions on both their faces that might stop short a more timid soul. Holmes cast a quick glance at his brother before thrusting the paper into his pocket. Without a word he marched towards me, grasped my arms and all but ricocheted me from the room.

“We are leaving,” he said, to no-one in particular.

I made haste to retrieve our hats and coats. As I turned around from the wide-open front door, Holmes already having set out on his way, I glimpsed Sophronia in some distress hurrying down the hall. Of Mycroft there was no sign. The lady and I teetered briefly in the entrance, her eyes imploring me to explain.

“I am so sorry,” I whispered to her, “but we must go. All shall be well, my dear.”

I caught up with my friend as he hailed down a hansom. We clambered inside, gave the driver our address. I passed him his coat and he wrapped himself in it, all the while shivering violently.

“Holmes,” I said, “if you do not tell me right this minute what this is all about, then I do not know what I shall do.”

His face was muffled within his coat; he lowered it sufficiently to talk.

“I am afraid that it cannot be this minute, John. When we get home, when I have had a little time to clear my thoughts.”

Mrs. Hudson was rightly perturbed to have us home so prematurely and with our faces in a turmoil, but she promised us hot tea and I thanked her sincerely for her kindness. Once inside our sitting-room I threw more coals upon the fire and chivvied it to life. Holmes poured us both a brandy, and now was reclining in his chair, his eyes tight shut. I waited, knowing that it would do no good to press the issue until he felt ready. The tea tray arrived, and was placed to one side. I locked the door and returned to my fireside seat.

Holmes opened his eyes and regarded me.

“Perhaps it is well that you disturbed us,” he said, after what seemed an interminable silence. “We might have remained rooted all night in that one spot, otherwise. Oh, John.” He sighed. “I do not know whether to feel anger, sadness, hope or any other of the myriad emotions that I preferred to keep locked out until I came to know you. And now the gates are open and I feel everything.” And he tapped his chest softly, the once, to emphasise it. He continued:

“Do you remember my speaking to you months ago, of my elder brother, Ulysses? Yes? And do you recall that he had left home abruptly while still quite young, and we never heard from him again? Mm-hm. Those papers in the safe, John, were documents and reports relating to him.”

I leaned forward, astonished. “But... I don't understand, Holmes. Reports?”

“Yes, reports. _He is alive_ , and Mycroft has known of it for some time. And I, oblivious fool that I am, knew nothing. Oh, but I should have! If only I had had the eyes to see.”

“Why did Mycroft keep this from you?”

My friend laughed scornfully.

“For fear that I might be broken-hearted, I imagine. For you know that I idolised Ulysses. I was a small child, I followed him everywhere... oh, I told you all this, but you can hear it again. My own attempts at tracing him were unsuccessful, and I believed Mycroft's to be likewise. But he had his sources, and they uncovered particular data. Brother Ulysses did not flourish in quite the way we should have hoped. He left home and he turned to crime, John. Perhaps he believed it his only route to survival at that time. We must have looked up to him through rose-coloured lenses, children that we were, and imagined him to be so much cleverer and wiser than he was.

“Well. Here is the crux of it, then. Do you recall the Worthingdon bank gang of 1875? Yes, I see that you do. You wrote of them, after all, in that story you titled 'The Resident Patient'. They were responsible for the murder of the bank's caretaker, and for stealing the sum of seven thousand pounds. One of the gang turned informer on the others. The fellows were arrested that same year. Three of them were handed a 15 year prison sentence and the ringleader was hanged. They served most of their sentence but all were released early in October '87, whereupon they reunited and promptly set about executing the informer, Blessington. Regrettably, my brother was one of the gang, for he had changed his name to Hayward after leaving home.

“Scotland Yard assumed that when the group subsequently fled the country, that they were among the passengers of the steamer _Norah Creina_ , which was lost with all hands upon the Portuguese coast. Their trail was not followed any further. This surmise was incorrect and was, in fact, a ruse by brother Mycroft in order to protect Ulysses from what would have undoubtedly been the rope had he been caught.”

Holmes drained his brandy glass. He looked toward the tea tray. I understood and hastily poured two cups of hot, sweet tea.

“My goodness,” I said, when the cup was in his hands and he was drinking from it. “So Mycroft has known of this for, how long? Since '75?”

“No, he says not. Apparently only since October of last year. And who knows if he ever would have told me had I not found out for myself.”

I struck the arm of my chair with my fist. “So that was to what Sophronia was referring – at the wedding reception, Holmes – when she said 'such a shame about Ulysses'!”

My friend shrugged. “Could she have been so careless as that? Mycroft would have sworn her to absolute secrecy. No, I am thinking that he only told her of our brother a little time before, and she was merely referring to what she knew of our wretched childhood.”

“This is terribly sad,” I said. Then: “But, Holmes! If Ulysses was not aboard that steamer, and he escaped capture, then in the name of heaven, where is he now?”

“A few hundred miles clear of London, with yet another identity and a sworn oath to Mycroft that he will never return to his old ways. I understand Mycroft is keeping a careful eye on him just the same.” Holmes looked at me then, his face twisted in conflict. “I want to visit him, John.”

I nodded. “I should be surprised if you did not. You have his address?”

“Yes, although I had to practically wrestle it from Mycroft, damn him.” He felt in his pocket and drew out the same paper he had been examining earlier. I realised now that it was a small pencil-drawn portrait. He thrust it at me. “Look, that is his likeness. It is taken from an old newspaper report when the bank gang were first sentenced. I _must_ have seen it at some point during that period, imagine that. How fool am I.”

Ulysses Holmes – or Hayward, as he was then – had been a strikingly handsome young man. The similarity with his younger sibling was remarkable, save that in the picture he was sporting a neat moustache with his hair parted to one side.

“He looks so much like you,” I said, and I could not help but smile. “Poor lad. He surely must have missed the company of his brothers all these years. I suppose that the shame of the turn his life took proved too much, and it felt necessary and easier to remain silent. And then by '75, of course, it was too late.”

We conversed a little while longer upon the events of the extraordinary evening, but my friend grew wearier and morose. At length, I arose and held out my hand to him. “Come to bed.”

Holmes accepted my invite, dragging himself to his feet. We extinguished the fire and the lamps and ascended the stairs to our room. My friend threw himself back upon the bed, not even caring to remove his shoes. He sighed deeply and covered his eyes with an arm, to peep out at me from beneath it.

“You are taking up the entire mattress,” I said. I unbuttoned my waistcoat and loosened my belt. Perching upon the edge of it, I unlaced my boots and removed my stockings. “We have had nothing to eat at all tonight,” I continued, sadly. “Only cocktails and sweet tea. My stomach is swilling with it.” I turned to look at him. “I suppose that you are not hungry in the slightest.” I received no answer to my chunter. I stood and grabbed the ankle nearest to me, and untied his shoes one to the other. I moved up the bed and proceeded to divest him of jacket, tie and waistcoat with minimal assistance. I laboured patiently with his shirt buttons, drew off his trousers and draped all as neatly as I could manage across a chair back.

I stepped back and took in the sight of him, still clad in his long underwear.

“Oh,” I said, then, in delighted surprise.

“Yes, John,” came the voice from the bed. “I do appear to be compromised.”

I burst into laughter.

“That is the oddest manner I ever heard of confessing to a cockstand.”

Holmes propped himself up on his elbows.

“I am not _confessing_ to it,” said he, his eyes narrowed. “I assure you that I am quite as astonished as you.” He lay back with a groan. “I ache now, John, you had better do something about it.”

Straddling him with a ramrod of my own, I leaned in to his ear. “Where do you ache?”

His eyes shot open.

“Why must you insist upon _talking_ when you should be _doing?_ ” he complained. “You know damn well where I ache, I don't see the point of--”

I curtailed his tirade with a kiss. “Will this stop the ache?” I asked him. I took one of his hands and drew it down, cupped it around me. He moaned.

I nipped the lobe of his ear with my teeth. “Will it?”

“Yes...”

“Agitation manifests itself in magical ways.”

“John, will you _shut up_ and breach me, for the love of--”

(I adore him when he is like this.)

I strip him down; he is magnificent. I toss the remainder of my evening garments to the floor; Mrs. Hudson will be furious. He draws his legs up to his chest. One month! One whole, bloody month without this. Fortunate indeed that I had not passed any welcoming knothole in that interval; for I do most strongly object to splinters.

I nuzzle around him until he becomes more vocal in his desire; he grips the sheets, clings to the bedstead, twisting his body until I feel compelled to weight it with my own.

“Be quiet.” I tug lightly at his hair. “And be still. You wriggle like an eel.”

He has no words left in him, happily, and he obeys me, for these are the parts we play.

I would torment him further if it hadn't already been one whole, bloody month. I have to sit back and breathe for one minute before I apply the oil, for I think that the touch alone might send me over the edge.

We both make a good deal of noise and the bed shakes.

When I release inside him his fingernails draw lines across my back. He whimpers and convulses in his own glory.

I withdraw and lay by his side, my fingers stroking his left cheek. We remain that way for minutes.

“Oh yes,” says he, at last. “I think that I should tell you about Sophronia.”


	4. The Calm Before the Storm

I confess that my main thoughts up to this point of afterglow had been: _We need a new bed, this one is older than Methuselah_. At the mention of Sophronia, I looked at Holmes in consternation.

“What about Sophronia? Don't tell me that she is somehow mixed up in this dreadful business with Ulysses?”

My friend shook his head impatiently. He leaned up against the pillows and lit a cigarette.

“No, no, it's not that. During our set-to in the drawing room, Mycroft did find it prudent to mention that his wife is newly with child.”

My heart seized for a second. “Mycroft is to become a father,” I said, softly.

“Well, yes, that is generally what happens when one's wife is capably fertilised.”

“Ugh,” I winced. “That is a nice way to drain the romance out of it, Holmes.”

We were quiet for a while. Holmes stubbed out his cigarette. He emitted a small mewl of distaste at the state of the bedsheet. He leaned over the side of the bed for his nightshirt. I watched him, feeling somehow disconnected.

“It is the closest that we shall get to the experience,” said he, settling himself again.

“I know...”

“I know that it grieves you, John, although you rarely mention it.”

He extinguished the lamp then, and I was glad. Darkness covers human weakness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, I was mindful to post a congratulatory card to the couple from us both. The delightful news was evidently the reason for the dinner, and most regrettably we had overturned their plans. The walk to the telegraph office gave me opportunity to consider Mycroft Holmes. How he must have agonised over the ethics of allowing his criminal sibling to roam free! Surely he must feel guilt? Doubt? How tight a rein did he now keep on the fellow, wherever he might be living? Indeed, had the brother truly repented? All of these questions and more kept me sombre and so occupied until I returned to our rooms. Holmes was already at the table placed for breakfast.

“Thank goodness,” I said, seating myself opposite to my friend. “I am absolutely famished.” I piled my plate high with curried chicken, ham and eggs.

The dearth of sustenance the previous evening, combined with our exertions later that same night, had driven up a furious appetite. As regards the latter I felt renewed and much relieved, and eager to repeat the same without too long a delay. I dearly hoped he might be willing. Holmes regarded me now across the top of his newspaper.

“Do have some,” I encouraged, waving to the steaming dishes with my fork. “It is quite delicious.”

He sighed, and reached for the spoon to ladle a small helping of the chicken upon his bare plate. He leaned back and returned to his reading, the food already forgotten.

“Tomorrow, John, if you are amenable,” said he, suddenly.

“Tomorrow what?”

“Tomorrow we shall travel to visit Ulysses,” he explained patiently, as if he were dealing with someone very feeble-minded.

“Oh! Very well, Holmes. Does he know to expect us? How long shall we be staying? I er, assume that we shall be boarding at a hotel and not imposing ourselves upon his hospitality?”

“No, he does not know. I really have no idea as to how long we shall be staying. Yes, we shall find a hotel somewhere close by. There you are, now, Watson: you are beginning to see more of the world than London and Baker Street after all.”

“Well, yes, but... where _does_ your brother live?”

“Franton, of all godforsaken places. It is a North Norfolk seaside town.”

“How lovely!”

“No, not especially. But I am glad that you are pleased.”

“And by what name is he now known?”

My friend flung down his paper, exasperated, I think, by my barrage of questions.

“These days he answers to Jonathan Briggs,” Holmes replied, with but the slightest curl of his lip. “It must get very confusing for him, but needs must, as they say. Watson, you are eating as if you might never see another plateful again; are you _really_ so ravenous?”

“Yes. I am.” I buttered a large hunk of bread. “Are you nervous, Holmes?”

The last question gave him pause. He picked up his fork, examined the tines, replaced it on his plate.

“I find that I do not know quite what to expect, and my mind is still conflicted about it all, and so yes, I would admit to you that I am, in this instance, rather nervous.”

I reached out to touch his hand. “It will be all right,” I said, a deal more bullishly than I felt.

After breakfast, I wandered our room to collect books and small items to pack and take with us on our trip. I spied the stemmed rose still in its test tube, and I plucked it free before it might start to shed its petals. A copy of Winwood Reade's 'Martyrdom of Man' was lying within reach, and I slipped the flower inbetween the pages with a sheet of folded newspaper, weighting it with a number of other, heavier volumes. I chuckled as I did all this, with the image of a lovelorn schoolgirl coming indelibly to mind. If Holmes should see me I felt it quite likely that he would laugh.

In our room, packing my bag, I hesitated. Holmes was slamming through the wardrobe, yanking out scarves and gloves and woollens.

“Will the weather really be so terrible?” I asked, doubtful.

He glanced back at me.

“It will be vile.” He continued his assassination upon the drawers. “We can expect a great deal worse than how it is here in the city. We are going to the _seaside_. With icy blasts of sea air, and sand blown in our faces.”

“The beach!” I exclaimed. 

My friend rolled his eyes at me.

“I shall consult our Bradshaw for the most convenient train times,” he said. He made to return downstairs, but I caught his wrist.

“Five minutes,” I said.

He frowned. “Unwise, John, as I do seem to have to keep repeating to you.”

“I am not suggesting that we cavort nude amongst the shirts and socks,” I said, hotly. “But I did think that after last night, we might be... back to normal. Just five minutes. Just... you know how I am, Holmes.”

He eyed me. He stepped to the door and thrust his head out, listening for any voice or movement elsewhere within the house. Shutting the door and turning the key, he moved back to where I stood.

“There's no room on the bed,” he said, peevish.

“We don't _need_ room on the bed.”

“You are like a hot-headed little bull, John, do you realise that?” Said with a smile; amused by my ardour.

“Yes,” I said, “I know.” And I knelt, and drew him to me.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of our day was discreet. Holmes spent it with his indexes and stacks of newspapers, researching any and all references to 'Hayward' that he could find. At intervals he groaned. Occasionally he made notes. He did not speak to me of what he found amongst those texts, and I did not like to ask. I kept him well supplied with tea and slices of Mrs. Hudson's excellent seed cake. By four o'clock our rug was strewn with sheets and balls of paper and not a small amount of crumbs. Holmes sat back against the sofa leg, one knee drawn up to his chin as he riffled distractedly through the foolscap. Seeing him at pause, I broke my silence.

“Does it make very bad reading, Holmes?”

He looked at me with a slight start as if he had forgotten my presence altogether.

“No more or less than I expected,” he replied. “A number of arrests for minor offences, several fines and warnings, one or two short spells in prison but nothing of significance until the misfortune with the bank gang.” He bundled the papers into an unkempt pile and thrust them into his desk drawer, which he then locked.

“Shall we dine at Simpson's tonight?” I suggested.

“I was force-fed with cake the entire afternoon; how on earth do you expect me to have any appetite for dinner? No, I shall sit here and read and smoke, I think. A little calm before the storm.”

“The storm?” I repeated, glumly. “Holmes, I do hope there will not be any trouble. You do wish to be civil to your brother, do you not?”

“Watson, that is not the issue,” he snapped. “The real contention here, my dear fellow, is will _he_ wish to be civil to _me?_ ”

And my friend hoisted himself into his chair and filled his pipe with the darkest thick shag, which he then proceeded to smoke in brooding silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As good fortune would have it, the following morning was dry and clear as we made our way to the station. Holmes was much subdued, and I almost came to wonder why he should wish to make the journey north at all if it were to have such a poor effect on him. The carriage was quiet, and I was thankful for that. To my dismay, Holmes had not informed Mycroft of our intended trip.

“If he is as all-seeing as he supposes, then he shall find out soon enough,” my friend sniffed.

“I have not been to the seaside in years,” I said. Memories of happy holidays as a child had come flooding back to me; of buckets and spades and sandcastles, of candyfloss and ice creams. I did not imagine for one minute that Holmes had had any similar experiences, but then so much of his childhood was still barred and bolted from me.

He grunted non-committally as I told him stories of the great fun that I had shared with my poor brother, with our donkey rides and puppet shows.

“You cannot imagine the excitement that all of that holds for a small child,” I said. “Of all the holidays that we had, the seaside ones were always my favourite.”

“I am sure that they were,” replied Holmes. Despite the relative warmth of the carriage he snuggled further down into his coat as if bitten with chill. He did not respond to my questions as to how we might spend those first hours upon arrival – the search for suitable accommodation, and perhaps to acquaint ourselves in some way with the area. I resolved to purchase a map or a pamphlet of some kind at our destination.

The hours trickled by, and we had read all of our newspapers and I had dozed a little while before the train eventually pulled in at the seaside town of Franton. Stepping down upon the platform with our bags and hats and coats, I inhaled the deepest lungful. Disappointed, I turned to my friend.

“I cannot smell the sea air at all,” I said.

He snorted.

“Hardly likely, in the middle of a grimy station, Watson. Go on, I know that you are desperate to purchase your map. I shall wait for you here.”

I hurried to the small kiosk and returned within a few minutes bearing my treasure. Holmes smiled.

“I shall rely upon you for all of the useful information now, my dear boy. Take a look at your guide and let us see if we can locate a hotel that might be bearable for one or two nights.”

And so armed in such a manner, we made our way across the concourse to emerge into the pale sunlight of the early afternoon. Whatever lay in wait upon the other side of the town, would not take us too much longer to find out.


	5. Walking Towards a Mirror

We followed the broad reach of planking across the grass plain separating the station from the outskirts of the town. The sky was such a pleasant blue (quite unlike the grey of London), smattered with elongated puffs of cloud that the bracing wind whipped overhead. Consulting my brochure I saw that we had the opportunity of several hotels upon this side of the town, but a deal more if we ventured further towards the shore. The idea of waking in the morning to look out across the sand and sea was an appealing one – I suggested to Holmes that we continue in an easterly direction. By good fortune we arrived almost immediately in a long chattering street of souvenir stalls. Not as many, certainly, as we should have found if we had visited in high summer, but to my jaded city eyes it invoked the same delight. The spring weather had enticed the Franton locals, too, for we encountered small groups of people hailing friends, meeting, talking, laughing; it all added wonderfully to the atmosphere.

“Shall we take a pot of tea here?” I suggested eagerly, indicating a small streetside restaurant.

“But...” Holmes pointed away down the thoroughfare to where our as yet unknown, unseen hotel lay in wait. “Wouldn't you rather...?”

“No, let us take it here. It is so lovely.”

I procured for us a pot of tea and a tray of sandwiches, and set them out upon an exterior wooden table. Holmes looked around as if he had fallen headfirst into an alien environment. He stared at the teapot and the tray. He scowled at the bustling young wives passing with their prams and caterwauling offspring.

“Why are we outside?” he enquired at last, seating himself gingerly. He prised open a sandwich suspiciously and peered inside it. 

“Because this is the seaside, and it is what people do,” I replied.

“It is _winter_.”

“ _Spring_.”

“Damn it, John.” He nibbled at his egg and cress and stirred his cup of tea. 

“I can detect a hint of brine in the air now,” I said, smiling. 

“You are quite mad,” said he.

At length he began to relax and his brows to unknot. Accepting a second sandwich of cheese and tomato and a refilling of his teacup, Holmes twisted on his bench to scrutinise our nearest neighbours.

“The gentleman to your far left is employed at the beach, in one of the glove-puppet show booths,” he said to me in a low voice.

“How do you know that?” I asked, craning my neck to look. “Oh, because his boots are thickly coated with sand. But a puppet booth? You cannot know that for sure, Holmes! He does not have any puppets with him.”

“No, of course not, but his swazzle is sitting on the table there, next to that small pile of coins. He keeps it in his pocket with his loose change, do you see, Watson. Better that he should not forget it when he stands up to leave, otherwise his next performance will be a poor one.”

“What do you make of his companion?” I whispered.

Holmes smiled. “His sister, rather than his wife. For they share the same prominent nose, the close-set eyes and chin. They are familiar, but not intimately so. His eyes linger on other women passing by, and she does not take affront.” My friend broke from his monologue to yawn and stretch. “Are we quite finished here?” he enquired. “Else the day will be done before we reach the other side of the town.”

We rose to take our departure, collecting bags and folding our heavy coats over our arms – for the wind had dropped and the sun's rays were much warmer. Several of the stalls were rather tempting, yet I did not dally by them. Rather, I made silent plans to return as soon as I might. I had no idea what use I might find for seashell necklaces or mosaic tiles, but I found them charming all the same.

At the end of the street we arrived at a cross-section of terraced houses: the final frontier before the promenade, I discovered. 

“Whereabouts does your brother live again, Holmes?”

“Thread Street.”

I jabbed at it triumphantly with my finger. “There it is. I should say a ten minute walk south. We should do very nicely if we continue east and select a hotel upon the front there.”

A few minutes more and from a side street we emerged at last – to my great delight – onto the promenade. The white sands stretched away before us to the twinkle of the sea; that extraordinary infinity. As a small child I had been overwhelmed, bursting into sudden tears at the first sight of it. My mother had believed that I was afraid, but nothing could have been further from the truth.

“If you jump you'll fill your shoes with it,” said my friend in some alarm, as I leaned over the edge of the paving to look down upon the beach.

“I have no intention of jumping,” I said.

“If you want to swim you'll catch your death of hypothermia.”

“I have no intention of swimming either,” I replied. “Not today, tomorrow or the next. The sea will be bitterly cold at this time of the year. Although now, _paddling_...” 

Holmes groaned. “Hotel,” said he, firmly. “Find one, John, please.”

We found a cheerful, white-painted building with bay windowed frontage a little further on. We appeared to be its only present guests, for the old proprietor was almost ecstatically pleased to greet us and accept our booking. A smartly dressed young lad carried our bags up to our adjacent rooms, and after some desultory effort at small talk we were left alone to settle in.

I marched to the window and flung it wide, sticking my head out and looking from left to right and then out to sea – for our rooms overlooked the water. By now mid-afternoon, there were few people on either promenade or beach, but to me it mattered little. I was, in point of fact, in imminent peril of overlooking that we were here on a far more important mission than the dipping of our toes. The reminder came by way of Holmes slamming into my room and throwing himself upon the bed. I turned around to see him nervously light a cigarette.

“No wonder this hotel is almost empty,” said he, from his recline. “Everything appears to be from the Middle Ages. Including the proprietor.”

I moved to sit beside him and to lightly cuff his head.

“Remember that we are no longer in the city, nor its suburbs,” I said. “Small seaside towns are very different. They are more... rustic.”

He snorted.

“Holmes,” I said, as the thought suddenly struck me, “just imagine if we had passed your brother walking in the street, and not realised that it was he!”

My friend shook his head.

“Impossible. I would have recognised him in the flesh. An incompetent line drawing – pah! – not so much, but face to face? John, do give me some credit, my dear fellow.”

“So when do you wish to visit him?”

He was quiet then, for a few moments.

“Soon,” said he. “In an hour.” His fingers shook slightly as he removed the cigarette from his mouth. I felt tenderly towards him at that moment, for his small reveal of vulnerability. I stretched out beside him as best I could upon that narrow single bed.

“Would you prefer to go alone?” I asked.

“I want you with me,” he said, firmly.

I kissed him, lay a hand upon his chest and with my thumb, smoothed the cotton of his shirt. He sighed.

“Is Mycroft jealous, do you think?” I asked, hesitantly. 

Holmes pressed his lips to my forehead and wrapped an arm around me.

“With Mycroft, anything is possible,” he replied. “Even jealousy. He was always envious of the close relationship that I had with Ulysses as a child. It was something of which he never found himself a part. Perhaps it fuelled the antagonism between us later on, who can tell.”

And we fell to a companionable silence, each lost in our own thoughts. The time of the meeting almost upon us, I felt myself growing gradually ever more anxious; a whole line of possible scenarios and outcomes running helter-skelter through my mind. Might the elder Holmes reject his kin? Or would there be astonished greetings, delighted handshakes, fond recollections? Nothing I could summon seemed to me to be any more likely than the other. Lulled by the softness of the bed and the close proximity of my friend I may have dozed, for the next moment I was aware of a tapping at my shoulder and Holmes standing before me, freshly washed and changed out of his travelling clothes.

“Five minutes, John,” said he, “and we shall be away.”

I splashed some water on my face, put on a clean shirt and buffed my shoes. I made certain to check that I held enough money in my wallet, for if it should be that we dined as a trio then I intended it to be as my treat. I stuffed the map into my waistcoat pocket. Holmes observed all this in fond amusement from the doorway. Locking my room, I caught his elbow and steered him away and down the stairs, and finally out onto the late afternoon promenade, the sky already streaking red. Strolling arm in arm, as if without a worry in the world, we made a leisurely trail away and towards Thread Street.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The area of town we now found ourselves in was uncommonly quiet for a spring afternoon. No gossiping women upon the doorsteps, nor children playing in the street. Thread Street was clean and the houses well-kept, regardless. I noted my friend's eyes darting from one window to the next, as if expecting his brother to loom up from a property other than his own. At the corner of the street stood an attractive red-brick end-terrace, with window boxes and terracotta pots, and with a fine brass knocker nailed to the white painted door. Holmes came to a grudging halt. He looked up at the roof and then down to the stone step.

“This is the place,” he said, so quietly that I could scarcely make it out.

“It is the smartest in the street,” I said, admiringly.

My friend stepped forward and grasped the brass knocker. He dealt three hearty raps upon the wood. 

I held my breath, as I am certain that he did also.

Ten seconds elapsed. Twenty. Holmes raised the knocker once more and repeated the call.

“Perhaps he is at work?” I suggested.

Holmes moved to each ground floor window in turn and peered in, shielding the glare from the late sun with his sleeve.

“No sign of life,” said he, turning around at last, his face unreadable. “We can return later, or would tomorrow morning be better, do you think? Oh, let us explore the town a little more, at any rate, and then see how things turn out.”

We set off back in the direction of the promenade, where the various stall-owners were already beginning to pack up their tables and their boards.

“Hoy there,” came a shout from far behind us. “What were you wanting with that house?”

We froze, then turned. My friend touched my arm but said nothing. He began to walk towards the voice, which was now a physical form, yet still a distance away. But the fellow was tall, very tall. And slender. And as the figure drew closer, and my friend moved the closer towards it, a shiver ran straight down my spine. For the stranger so closely resembled my partner, that were it not for the different clothes upon each then it might have been the one walking into a mirror.

“What are you wanting?” the fellow repeated. The voice was rougher, the years having eroded its upbringing, but still enough was familiar about it.

And by now they were close enough to see the other quite clearly. 

The fellow stopped short, as did Sherlock Holmes.

“Holy feck,” said the coarser man, his jaw loose and his eyes as wide as saucers.

“Yes, I would entirely echo that odd construction,” said Holmes. Then, softly: “Hello, brother.”


	6. Eight Fingers in the Honey Pot

Ulysses Holmes made the half dozen steps which brought him fairly nose to nose with his younger brother. For a moment I was afraid that he might lash out at my friend, for his face was roiling with emotion. 

“Why are you here? How did you find me?”

My friend smiled very slightly. “We have a mutual acquaintance by the name of Mycroft, I believe. It has been a long time... Jonathan.” He held out his right hand.

The brother stared down at the hand.

“Look at you, all fancy,” said he. “That's a knuckleduster of a ring.”

The pair of them shook hands at last, awkward, ill at ease.

“It is _not_ a knuckleduster,” said Holmes.

Ulysses looked up. He burst into loud laughter; his shoulders shook, he threw his head back in his mirth. My friend looked slightly aggrieved.

“Good god, man, you haven't changed a jot from when you were seven years old,” the elder brother declared, catching his breath.

“I really don't know what _that_ is supposed to mean, Uly—Jonathan.” Holmes corrected himself with a grimace. He might have added something to it, but his brother had pulled him into a rough hug from which my friend was valiantly attempting to extricate himself, and failing to a larger degree. At length he was released from the swathes of knitted scarf and jersey.

“Allow me to introduce you to John Watson, my friend and colleague,” said Holmes, reassembling himself and just beginning to smile.

I shook hands with the fellow, who beamed at me.

“Good afternoon to _you_ , sir,” said he. “I have read of and about you.”

“Oh dear,” I said, doubtfully.

“Oh, it is all good,” said the brother. “I had to keep up with Sherlock's adventures somehow, after all, even from, well, you know. At least, I suppose that you know. Come in, the both of you, come in.”

He produced a key from his trouser pocket and unlocked the front door of his house. Waved inside, we stepped across the threshold and into the narrow hall. The door was shut and locked behind us. Holmes squeezed my arm: _It will be all right._ I squeezed his in return: _I love you._ He winked.

The sitting-room was small but comfortable enough, furnished in the spartan way of a bachelor with few decorations or trinkets, and all muted colours. Not immediately offered refreshment, we were invited to sit by the fire, and this we did as Ulysses shovelled on coals and sparked it to life. He sat back then, and looked at us both. Yes, so similar to his younger brother save for a few extra lines and the odd fleck of grey.

“So why _are_ you here?” he asked again. “Is it really to pay a social call, or did Mycroft demand that you check up on me? God's truth, he has his cronies already doing that; you need not have worried.”

“I am here because I learned the grand news of your still being alive only two days ago. I am here because you are my brother and I have not seen you in 27 years. I am here because, dammit, Ulysses, you could not find it within yourself to make contact with us in all of that time.”

The brother had the decency to flinch, his cheeks spotting red.

“I am sorry for all of that,” said he. “I was ashamed. I don't expect you to forgive me for it.”

“Where did you go to, after you left home?” 

“Well, it was all a bit of a mess. I finally caught a ride on the back of a goods cart, and hid under the cover until we were out of the city. Then I walked and walked, and begged favours for shelter, and hitched more carriage rides until I ended up at a small farm where they were looking for help. And that's where I stayed for a while until the long hours and low pay drove me mad. Then I was off. I fell in with a new bunch of mates. They were the ones who led me astray, and that was the beginning of the trouble.”

Holmes shook his head sadly. “Why could you not find it within yourself to write a letter, to at least let us know you were alive? You have no idea how it affected our mother.”

Ulysses exhaled loudly.

“Family,” said he, bitterly. “Yes, our beloved, close-knit family. How I should have written fond letters home, telling mother and father how I missed them so.” He gave a short laugh.

“I missed you,” said my friend, quietly. “I felt very alone after you left.”

Ulysses looked at him closely now from head to toe, then across to me.

“You have done well for yourself,” he said. “Working on the side of justice, how about that.”

“It is not necessarily the easier route,” my friend replied steadily.

“Hah! I suppose there's truth in that.” The brother leaned back in his chair. “I do remember how we were, Sherlock. I was fond of you, you know. But there was a ten year gap between us. Did you expect me to carry you along when I left?”

“No,” said Holmes, “of course I did not.”

“Families estrange themselves very easily,” Ulysses continued. He pulled out a rough old clay pipe and stuffed it with black tobacco. He lit and drew on it heavily. He indicated that we might share his pouch and this we did. It was powerful, bitter stuff, of licorice and burnt wood.

“The newspapers make no mention of your home life, Sherlock,” said the brother. “All I ever glean is from Dr. Watson's stories, which are surely manipulated for publication.” He cast a sly glance at me. “So how is it, then? Are you married? Do you have children?”

“No,” said Holmes, “I am not married, and I have no children.”

“Why is that, then?”

There was a pause. I glanced at my friend, but he stared resolutely straight ahead.

“Not every fellow chooses to marry young,” he replied in an odd tone.

“But you have your share of the ladies, I'd wager.”

Holmes shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I cannot say that I do,” said he. “It would be extremely... time consuming... and my work does keep me rather occupied.”

“Time consuming!” Ulysses threw back his head again to emit a loud bellowing laugh. “But isn't that half the fun of it, Sherlock? No?” Again he looked to me, perhaps observing my discomfort, for his expression slowly changed. To my friend, his tone as bland as you like:

“You a shirtlifter, then?” 

“What makes you think that?” asked Holmes, his eyes narrowed, teeth clenched around his pipe.

Ulysses chuckled. “Well, your voice is fruity, for a start. No offence, Sherlock. And your waistcoat. And that _ring_.”

“My voice is not 'fruity'. The waistcoat is London fashion. The ring is none of your business.”

“That still doesn't answer my question.” Ulysses continued to guffaw at his imagined interrogatory talent.

“I am not a _'shirtlifter'_ , as you so charmingly imply,” said Holmes.

“Well, well, no harm meant,” said the brother. “I couldn't give two figs where you put it.” He turned back to me. “Apologies, Dr. Watson, for my appearing so crude in front of you. You must think even poorer of me now. But I am a plain speaker, and I can't help but say what's on my mind. No offence. No offence at all.” And he relit his pipe.

An uncomfortable silence prevailed for a half a minute, while we all three of us smoked our pipes and at least one of us wondered what on earth to say. I strove to regain a measure of eye contact with Holmes but his gaze was fixed upon the fire. At length I set down my smoke and clapped my hands, which startled them both.

“What do you say to my treating the pair of you to dinner this evening?” My smile rode oblivious over their muted reaction. “Neither of us knows the town well, Ulysses, but I am certain that you must be familiar with its better restaurants?”

The brother nodded, slowly.

“I know of one or two, yes. That is indeed civil of you, Doctor, if Sherlock is agreeable.”

I looked to my friend and he tipped a curt nod.

“That is settled, then,” I said. “Will you dine as you are, Mr. Holmes, or would you change beforehand?”

The fellow chuckled. 

“Please, call me Ulysses in private, Doctor. And perhaps 'Jonathan' in public. Just to keep up with the façade, as it were. I will change. If you would give me just ten minutes then I shall be with you.”

He left us together in the sitting-room and we heard his boots clatter the wooden staircase to the upper floor.

“Shirtlifter!” said Holmes, under his breath. 

“You did not wish to tell your brother the truth?” I asked.

My friend scowled. “No, I did not. I have no desire to become the subject of his mockery. Do please be quiet about it if he aims a similar question at you. Have you noticed, by the way, how his inflection becomes the smoother the longer that he speaks with us?”

“A sub-conscious adapting to the company in which he finds himself,” I mused. “Yes, now that you mention it, I do. I should say that if he was with his gang of roughs, then his accent would be different altogether.”

“It is a clever way of blending in with the crowd. There is much of the chameleon about him, I think.”

Holmes stood and paced the room, examining bookshelves and the mantel, peering from the window and down the street.

“The street is too quiet,” said he. “Where on earth are all the residents?”

“Some of the properties may be unoccupied?” I suggested. “Really, Holmes, I should not read too much into that, if you are reading anything at all.” Gently, then: “Are you all right?”

He turned to me and smiled.

“Yes, I think so. It is difficult, however. I am glad that you are here with me.”

When Ulysses Holmes descended from his wardrobe, my friend and I were compelled to double-take. For he was now transformed: dressed in a smart dark suit, with gloves and cane and polished shoes, he looked every inch the gentleman. His hair was combed back, his handsome features clearly defined. I would be an untruthful man if I declared that my eyes did not pop at the sight of him.

“Good gracious,” said Holmes, similarly dumbfounded. “Like a phoenix from the ashes.”

“Well,” replied the brother, “I had better take that as a compliment. Allow me to recommend a restaurant now. I have heard very good things about Moretti's, and it is not too far from here, we might easily walk it.”

Moretti's was a quaint eaterie specialising in _fruits de la mer_. With the walls festooned with maritime curios and the ceiling strung with nets and shells, we found ourselves led across to an area with a cluster of discreet leather-benched booths to seat groups of four. It was from one of these that we looked out at the early evening bustle of the thriving little restaurant. 

Ulysses began to speak, then, to tell us a little more of his current situation. The red-brick end-terrace had been procured for him and furnished by brother Mycroft. It was his to keep and live in on the proviso that he mended his ways and made an honest living for himself. That he should not flee the town nor disappear for any long period of time, else he be tracked down and dealt his due for his part in the demise of Blessington. He was gainfully employed in a small carpenter's, carving and woodburning various seaside gewgaws for the holidaying summer crowds. He had also enjoyed a number of dubious liaisons with several ladies of the town thus far. 

“Like dipping all eight fingers into the honey pot after doing so long without,” said he, with a laugh.

“What a dreadful analogy,” said Holmes. “Are you happy, though?”

The brother stared at my friend. “Happy? Who is happy? Are _you_ happy?”

Holmes considered the question. “Yes,” he said, “I am happy.”

“Then I am happy for _you_ ,” replied Ulysses. “Although I cannot see how you can possibly be happy if you're not getting your end away. No offence.” He looked at me. “Are you happy, Doctor?”

“I am happy also,” I replied.

“Christ almighty,” said he, “so much happiness around me, I never realised.” He raised his wine glass. “To happiness! And long may it prosper.”

We shared the most delicious shellfish platter and several bottles of white Bordeaux. With a few glasses of the latter down our throats the conversation relaxed immeasurably. We laughed a great deal, relating stories from our past as well as hopes for our immediate future. Comparing the two brothers across the table proved an irresistible preoccupation for me all through the evening; I trusted that neither noticed my close attention. 

“How long can you stay in Franton?” asked the elder brother.

“A day or two longer,” my friend replied. “I have a possible case that awaits my attention in London.”

“All work and no play,” said Ulysses. “I insist that you both visit my place tomorrow evening. We shall talk some more, and drink, and be merry. And then we'll bid adieu, if you like, and you can return to the city and your cases.”

“Very well,” said Holmes. “Tomorrow evening, then.”

And we called for coffee and for brandy, and for cigars that tasted neither of strong licorice nor burnt wood.


	7. Flash Storm

By eight o'clock the next morning, Holmes and I were halfway through our breakfast and peering out through the rain soaked window pane at the almost-river washing down the promenade beyond. A thin streak of lightning out at sea, and then one, two, three seconds heralding the low crack of the thunder.

“This is ridiculous,” said Holmes. He tossed his egg spoon onto his plate and the shells went flying. “I am not going out in this.”

I stared out at the inclement horror.

“And it was so lovely yesterday,” I said. “But, it is still early yet. In an hour's time it may have cleared.”

“You are a regular little sunbeam,” my friend replied, his mouth turned down. 

We had neither of us slept well the previous night. I had found my bed to be hard and uncomfortable, the room too cool, the night sounds poorly conducive to peaceful rest. The grey weather brought the gulls in to the land, and they circled and screeched outside the hotel, swooping down to the roof. Six o'clock had therefore seen me washed and dressed and tapping at my friend's door, to find him similarly braced. We had spent the remaining hours before breakfast smoking several well-stuffed pipes and talking of our evening with brother Ulysses. I cannot recall much of what was said, in that way that conversation tends to ebb and flow: in fragments or in streams; some little thoughtful, some deal nostalgic, and a note of melancholy through it all.

“I can only wonder if he will now make something of his life,” Holmes had said to me, “or if it is too late and he will ever be the jailbird. There is a certain quality to him that I can't quite put my finger on, and that perplexes me.”

And now we sat at this still early hour with a teapot halfway cold, and the rain sheeting down in torrents. If I had been optimistic of shopping along the charming street of one day ago, then that would first necessitate a waterproof and galoshes.

Nine o'clock saw us muffled within our overcoats, standing in the hotel lobby with the main door partway open, our noses poked and sniffing the air like bloodhounds.

“I am going to make a run for it,” my friend declared, and did so. I hopped after him, dodging the puddles as we raced along the front. Half a minute later we had reached the shelter of Knight's amusement arcade, and we stood there shaking the heavy drops off our hats, laughing at the wet state we now found ourselves in.

“The air smells so different here in Franton,” I exclaimed.

“Oh, you and your air,” said Holmes. “But what on earth are we going to _do_ today?”

I took his arm and steered him around the clattering arcade. There were strange, glass fronted boxes which accepted a penny to whirr through a clockwork puppet show. We saw hoopla stalls and a rifle range, a giant bagatelle, and small curtained booths where fortune-tellers and tarot readers cast their odd enchantment. Back at the front by another door we found a cheerful vendor selling warm sugared doughnut rings. I could not resist the purchase of a penny bagful.

“You will certainly be sick if you eat all of those,” said Holmes.

I thrust the bag under his nose. “You will just have to help me, then.”

The doughnuts were sticky and delicious, the sugar powder coating our fingers and our lips. As we hopped from one shelter to the next along the promenade, it seemed to me that as good a time as any could be had despite the rain. A short distance along, we passed a boarded stall advertising various sized cones of cockles and whelks. Next to it, a vendor of fresh fish and chips.

“We might return here for our lunch,” I suggested.

Holmes looked at me, amusement on his face.

“If it hasn't been blown away by the wind before then,” said he.

With the rain gradually easing we ventured out onto the pier. Stretching a short distance out to sea, at the end of it appeared to be a gaudy theatre, closed until the summer season. The Silly-Golf park was also shut to my disappointment, likewise the bowling green. Holmes's relief was fairly palpable.

“I suppose if the sun was out then you'd be wanting your paddle,” he said with a smile.

“Does the seaside really horrify you so very much?” I asked him.

“Only marginally,” said he. “All this pressure to enjoy oneself. It is a little bit much.”

I shook my head at my eccentric companion, and on we charged to alternative sport. This did ultimately result in a long shore side walk, a curious conversation with one old beach fisherman who attempted to sell us the contents of his bucket, and a rambling return to the food stalls we had passed by a little earlier.

“Must we really return to London tomorrow, Holmes?” I asked. “I am rather enjoying Franton.”

“That's as maybe,” Holmes replied, “but I am anxious not to miss any news from Lestrade. I suppose I could wire him, but he might not care to bother us with trifles if he decides that we are on holiday. No, I should prefer to speak with him in person.”

I sighed. “We had best make the most of the time that we have, then. At least the rain has stopped. Let's take a look around these souvenir stalls.”

By the end of the day my wallet was weaker, but my pockets were bulging with bounty: A set of six ceramic painted thimbles, a bag of sweet seaside “rock”, two shell necklaces and a printed silken scarf. We returned to our hotel to unladen our goods and prepare ourselves for the evening ahead with Ulysses. Neither of us was tempted to partake of any dinner, as we had been fairly gluttonous all the day long. I sought out the hotel proprietor and persuaded him to sell me a bottle of Champagne from his cellar. With this and a box of fine cigars from the local tobacconist, I felt that we should make a welcome pair of guests at Thread Street. I began to wonder, then, if we might ever return to the town; if it might eventually become a home from home for us. Holmes, for his part, had mellowed much during the day. (There is nothing quite like a brisk promenade walk in a fine misting drizzle to bring out the best in a man.) I stood in his room now and straightened his tie as he fussed with my hair.

“You need to book an appointment with your barber, John,” said he. “You are in absolute danger of becoming a shaggy dog.”

“And I know what _you_ need,” I said, making a grab for him. 

He twisted out of the way, protesting the ruination of his suit.

“Tonight, then,” said I, “after we return from your brother's. We are the only guests here, after all.”

The sky was heavy once again as we left the hotel for the walk south to Thread Street. The chill evening wind froze us, and we turned up our collars, digging our hands deep in our pockets for warmth. We passed by the front of Moretti's, and peeped in through the steamy windows at the Saturday revel. A clock somewhere in the town chimed eight as we came to a halt at Ulysses' door and my friend rapped thrice upon it.

It was fine indeed to stand by the blazing fire and thaw ourselves, as Holmes's brother tossed our coats onto a chair and set about pouring tumblerfuls of whisky.

“Champagne and cigars!” he exclaimed, accepting our gift. “Thank you, my word, it will be a good evening. How have you spent your day, then?”

We regaled him with our adventures and he laughed when I told of the souvenirs that I had bought.

“Thimbles!” said he, “Now what on earth good are they? Here, let me give to you one of my carvings, at least you can display that on your mantel without appearing a lunatic.”

The brother brought out a small wooden horse harnessed to an open seaside carriage, some five inches high, quite exquisitely carved and decorated.

“That is really very good,” said Holmes, leaning forward to examine it. “You always did have a talent in that direction, I recall.”

“Yes, and it is only just now proving useful,” replied Ulysses. “Better late than never, I declare.” He looked at me. “Do you like it, Doctor?”

“I really do,” I said, turning it this way and that. “I really do, indeed. Thank you so much for your kind thought.”

The whisky was magnificently warming: a single malt with peat and smoke and spice. I gladly accepted a second tumbler as my friend opened the cigar box and passed it around. He began to speak of those things which meant so much to him: his beloved Stradivarius, and then of favourite works from the authors he admired, and of the art of the great Masters. Of all of these, Ulysses confessed he could not claim any expertise, but surprised us pleasantly to learn that he was well-read and fluent in both French and German.

“That is how it is when a fellow is locked up with not a whole lot to do,” said he with a rueful smile. “It is either read and learn and absorb, or go quite mad from the boredom.”

We reached the bottom of the whisky bottle and moved on to the brandy. As the Champagne sat chilling in the ice, our conversation grew more colourful, the air thicker with the smoke from our cigars. 

The first loud crack of thunder sent us fairly out of our skins. Holmes shot to the window and peered out from the curtain.

“It is filthy out there,” he reported. “The rain is torrential. I can see lightning. Ugh.” He retreated to his chair with us and glanced quickly at his watch. “Eleven o'clock,” he noted dourly. “I wonder how long this is set for.”

“Might likely just be a flash storm,” replied Ulysses. “Let's uncork that Champagne.”

Mixing grape with the grain is rarely a sound idea. My head was content but fairly swimming. Holmes had always been far better able than I at holding his wine. He looked at me now and shook his head with a knowing smile.

“I predict a headache for you tomorrow, Watson,” said he.

The storm persisted; it raged at the windows and rattled the door. Our talk was frequently drowned by the breaks of thunder.

“My goodness,” I said, “this is ferocious weather!”

“Seaside weather,” said Ulysses, with a laugh. “You get used to it.”

“We might be in a fix if it does not let up,” said Holmes. “We should be blown to the rooftops as soon as we set foot outside the door.”

“Then you must stay here tonight, and that is final,” replied Ulysses. “No, do not frown at me like that, Sherlock, you and Doctor Watson will be most welcome. I have two bedrooms upstairs, lucky enough, and I shall be perfectly content with the sofa right here. Yes? Well, that is settled, then.” He stood up, looked about him at the furniture, appeared to grapple with a thought. “I had better prepare us all some coffee,” said he, “to try and dilute some of this alcohol.”

He left the room, returning presently with a tray of three steaming cups which he handed around.

“I have made up your rooms with fresh linen,” he said. “See, Sherlock, I could always make another career as a butler.”

“Yes, it is always good to have options,” my friend replied dryly.

We drank our coffee and listened to the wind and the rain.

Before too long, Holmes began to yawn and to stretch.

“I am feeling done in,” he said. “I think I must retire before I fall asleep where I am sat.”

“Let me show you to your room,” said the brother. “And you too, Doctor.”

We had been provided with clean nightshirts, and warm blankets on the bed. I had but a second to wish my friend goodnight, for he was making such a show of yawns and clearly eager for his slumber. I bade Ulysses a sound rest and heard him pad away back down the stairs. I turned into my cosy room and prepared for bed. Within two minutes I was between the sheets with the gas lamp extinguished, listening for any sound from Holmes's room, but I could detect none over the crash of the storm. My head felt pleasantly muzzy. I closed my eyes. 

Sleep did not arrive immediately, however, for the combination of treacherous weather and yet another strange environment caused me to toss restlessly. It may have been fifteen minutes from laying my head down on the pillow when I heard a soft tap upon my door. The door creaked open an inch or two, and the nightshirted figure of Holmes thrust its nose in.

“Watson!” he whispered. “Are you awake?”

“Yes,” I whispered back to him. “Come in.”

He slipped into the room, shutting the door quietly and padding across to my bed, where he perched upon the edge, cast in dark shadows and streaks of pale light from the chinks of the curtain.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, still so quietly, for fear of waking the other occupant of the house.

“I drank a little too much, I think,” I replied. “But I feel quite well, considering.” I sat up and placed a hand upon his thigh. He looked down at it there.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked. “Has Ulysses gone to bed?”

“Yes,” said he, still looking at my hand.

And now with the culminated effect of the alcohol and my friend sitting so close, I began to feel that familiar tingle in my groin. I tugged a little at his nightshirt.

“Do you want to, if we are quiet about it?”

Holmes seemed to consider for a moment.

“Do I want to what?” he whispered.

“Whatever you like,” I replied. I drew down the bedclothes and patted beside me. “At least we might kiss for a while, even if you are uneasy about anything more here. I do understand.”

He moved slowly up the bed and lay down next to me. He propped his head up on one hand and regarded me seriously.

“You want only to kiss?” he asked, as if seeking reassurance.

I stroked his shoulder, and chuckled. “If you are in the mood to render me insensible, then do please go ahead. Or I shall gladly do the same for you.” 

I leaned forward and brushed my lips against his, pressing my tongue a partway inbetween. I made a soft noise at the pleasure of contact.

With one swift movement he took ahold, and pushing me onto my back rolled on the top of me. He was but a few inches from my face; he stared down, then moved in and took my mouth. Our embrace was wet and rough, abandoned. We broke apart, gasping. I reached down to the small of his back and pulled him the closer to me. I tore at the hem of his nightshirt, drawing it to his waist. I struggled with my own, managing with difficulty to raise it sufficient to feel the soft bristle of skin brushing skin. I heard my friend's sharp intake of breath.

“Oh god,” I groaned, “I need you. Please.”

I bucked against his responding hardness. He pressed me down into the mattress.

“You want me to fuck you,” said he, his voice aquiver.

“Please, yes, please.”

Holmes raised his head to look behind him at the door.

“Just lock the damned door,” I hissed, “if you are concerned about Ulysses barging in.”

My friend stepped across and turned the key in the lock. He returned to the bed in darkness, looked down at me, hesitant. I had fully removed my nightshirt, was lying there bare and aching for him.

“Turn over,” said he, “onto your front.”

I did so, shuddering short breaths in anticipation of what would come next. I felt Holmes climb back onto the mattress, place a knee upon either side of me. His strong fingers and palms kneaded the muscles of my back. I groaned in delight. I felt the tickle of his hair as he pressed a brief kiss to the base of my spine. Then I heard him spit into his hand.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dawn brought with it the dubious pleasures of a sore head and a dust-dry mouth. I rolled over to squint at my watch: it was six o'clock. I was alone in my bedroom; Holmes had slipped away shortly after our tryst. I lay there, smiling blissfully despite the ache in my skull and elsewhere, wondering if it was too early yet to rise, if I might laze an hour longer. I dozed for ten minutes more, but my thirst proved overwhelming. I decided to shake myself awake and dress, to go in search of tea.

I eased myself back into my evening clothes, and splashed myself with ice-cold water from the wash bowl. I opened the door to my room and stepped out onto the landing. The house was silent. I tested the knob of Holmes's door; it turned and opened inwards. My friend was lying there, still asleep, dead to the world. I leaned over him, ruffled his hair, shook his shoulder gently.

“Holmes,” I called out, softly. “Wake up, old fellow. Good morning.”

He stirred, grunted, pulled the covers further up over his head.

I chuckled.

“It's early,” I told him, “but you surely need a cup of tea as much as I.”

Holmes shifted and gazed up at me, bleary eyed.

“ _How_ early?” he enquired. He glanced at his watch. “Oh John, it's only six.” He fell back against the pillow. “I am _incredibly_ tired,” he complained.

“Small wonder,” I said, “after last night.”

He smiled. “I did not drink as much as you.”

“Well, I was not referring to the drink,” I said.

“All the walking that we did, then,” he amended.

“I was not referring to the walking, either,” I said, laughing.

He looked at me quizzically.

“How soon you forget,” I said, kissing his forehead. “But it was wonderful all the same, and I am confident that your brother did not hear us.”

Holmes sat up in bed.

“What?” he said.


	8. Picking up the Shards

I rolled my eyes at my friend, marvelling at how the early morning awakening had so affected his customary acuteness.

“Then either you were sleepwalking,” I said with a fond smile, “or you drank more than you are willing to admit, and our lovemaking will forever stay a haze.”

He stared at me, fell back upon his elbows, looked at his watch again for some absurd reason.

“It's just after six,” I reminded him. “Shall I see if your brother is awake yet?”

“ _No_ ,” said he. “No. I shall do that. Leave that to me.”

He jumped out of bed and began to pull on his clothes.

“My head hurts,” I said, slumping into a chair in the corner. “Whose bright idea was it to bring the Champagne?”

Holmes was beside me suddenly, crouching by my chair.

“John,” said he, in all seriousness, “what did we do?”

I was ill-disposed to answer fifty questions about our night, desperate as I was for a pot of hot and refreshing tea, but I humoured him nonetheless. He paled visibly.

“Holmes,” I said, in an attempt to allay his concern, “your brother did not hear us. The sound of the storm would have been enough to muffle a boiler explosion.”

“Oh, well, good, good,” he managed. “I had better see if he is dressed, then.”

My friend collected the rest of his items and stuffed them into his pockets, then charged away down the stairs. I followed behind, in my mind's eye the kitchen, the kettle, a teapot. I heard Holmes's loud exclamation from the sitting-room, whereupon he joined me in the small galley.

“He is not here, and the front door is unlocked,” said he, tense. “Where the hell can he have got to?”

“Church?” I suggested. 

“John,” he said, “you had better go back to the hotel. As Ulysses has... gone out, it would be very impolite of us to sprawl around his house longer than we ought.”

“Impolite?” I asked, baffled. “Would it not be even ruder if we were gone when he returned? He may be back in a few minutes – perhaps from the newspaper stand, or, I don't know?”

“Really, John, it is quite all right,” said my friend, his tone the yet more fraught. “I shall, I think, stay here for a while longer, to... wish him good luck... then I shall join you back at the hotel breakfast room. How about that.”

“Very well,” I replied dubiously. “If you believe that to be best.”

“I do,” said he. With one hand upon the small of my back he pushed me towards the front door.

“Give your brother my best regards,” I said, turning in the doorway.

“Yes, yes, I shall.”

The door closed behind me. 

I shall admit that I regarded my friend's behaviour as a trifle more than odd, however I chose to put it down to Ulysses's peculiar absence and the indulgence of the previous evening. The weather, at least, had improved, and the walk back to the White Gables hotel was most pleasant. By now it was a quarter to seven and almost time for the first breakfast sitting.

“Doctor Watson!” exclaimed the proprietor, “You and your friend, Mr. Holmes, you did not return last night. We thought that you must have opened your umbrella and been whisked up to the church tower!” He laughed at his joke. “I am happy to see you again. Where is Mr. Holmes? Will you be wanting your table now?”

I reassured our friend that all was well and that Holmes would be joining us presently. I ordered a pot of tea – sorely needed by now – and a dish of ham and eggs. The first cup was blissful and did much to restore my equilibrium. My thoughts began to turn to the train we might catch for London, and if we could possibly fit in a visit to the Waxwork Palace beforehand.

I had eaten all of the ham and the eggs and was on the second pot of tea before Holmes finally arrived.

“I am sorry, old fellow, I ate everything before it went cold. Shall I order another dish?”

“No,” said he, “A cup of tea will suffice.”

He sat down and poured himself a cup, tight-lipped.

“Did you see Ulysses?” I enquired.

He shook his head, raised the cup to his lips.

“You have cut your hand,” I said, concerned. 

He waved away my anxiety. “It is nothing,” he said. “I dropped one of the whisky tumblers and cut my fingers picking up the shards.”

“You should let me take a look at it,” I said, “in case any fragments are still embedded in the skin.”

“Watson, don't fuss,” he snapped. “I don't require nannying.”

We sat in silence; he to sip sullenly at his tea, while I nursed my hurt feelings and amended my plans of a trip to the waxworks. I was baffled as to how my friend's mood could have changed so suddenly overnight, but did not dare press him upon the subject. The teapot was drained dry and the silence so oppressive that I was almost about to break it on the subject of the train when the proprietor appeared before us. He carried a narrow envelope in his hand.

“A telegram for you, Mr. Holmes,” said he, with a small bow.

Holmes tore it open, read the contents. He flung the sheet onto the table, covered his face with both hands for a moment. Then he sat back in his chair and motioned that I should read the message.

“Oh dear,” I said, “oh dear. But Holmes, how did Mycroft know where to reach you?”

“The all-seeing eye apparently _does_ see everything after all,” my friend replied. “He is very tiresome.”

“Tiresome?” I boggled at him. “Holmes, his wife has been confined to bed with a distressed pregnancy, and you are calling him _tiresome_ that he should track us down to inform us of it? We must return immediately, of course.”

“You return, Watson,” said he. “I fear that I must stay on here a day or two longer after all.”

“But why? Holmes, our _sister-in-law_...”

“... is _resting_ and is in very capable hands,” he finished for me. “What good should I do, if I were there? Stand at the foot of the bed and arrange flowers in vases? You are the one she needs, John, not I. And I do need to speak with Ulysses before my return.”

He stood up from the breakfast table and strode off in the direction of the staircase without another word. The proprietor hovered by me, still, all anxious attention.

“Do you wish to send a reply message, Doctor?” he enquired.

“Yes,” I said, rising also. “Please reply that I shall be returning to London at once, alone.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It did not take me very long to change my clothes and pack my bag. I consulted the Sunday timetable and found that a train back to London would be leaving at ten o'clock. I tapped at my friend's door to inform him of this. The door was locked; I tapped again. When Holmes opened it in answer I saw that his eyes were red.

“Sherlock,” I said, entering his room and putting my arms around him, “my love, it will be all right. Sophronia will be all right. I shall take care of her for you.”

He held on to me.

“I love you, damn you,” said he, as if I should need to be reminded; as if it cost him dear to tell me.

“I love you more,” I said, kissing his face. “And everything will be all right.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I managed to sleep a little on the train, lulled by the rhythm and the soft chattering hum from my fellow passengers. We experienced no unforeseen delays, approaching London well on schedule. I found myself missing the presence of my friend, for there were few train journeys that I embarked on without him by my side. I did not think the less of him for not returning with me straightaway, for I understood how very great a deal it was that he become fully reacquainted with his brother, and surely a mere day or two was not long enough to realise this. So yes, I understood. And the train carried me on, and we arrived into London by the mid-afternoon. I took an hour to stop by Baker Street to drop off my bag and to check on the mail. Amongst the usual circular nonsense were several items of interest, one carrying the potential of a new case for Holmes – something which I was certain would greatly cheer him. The delicious smell of roasted meat wafted up from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, and I sorely regretted having missed our traditional Sunday luncheon. I tapped at her door to greet her, and was rewarded with the promise of a dish of cold cuts and salad for supper.

The lamps were already lit at Mycroft's house when I arrived in the late afternoon. I was shown in to the drawing room to await the elder Holmes. 

“Dr. Watson,” said he, stepping in and holding out his hand. “It is good to see you again.”

“Mycroft, I hope you are well, but how is your wife?” I asked him, shaking his hand. I gestured to my doctor's bag. “I brought this in case I was called upon to assist in any way.”

Mycroft Holmes smiled a pained smile.

“Sophronia is as well as can be expected,” he said. “There was some... bleeding,” (here his cheeks reddened from unfamiliarity with describing such matters) “but the doctor I brought in to see her at once informed us that there was no immediate danger.”

“The cervix is closed?”

“Yes.”

“That is good,” I replied in relief. 

“Where is Sherlock?” Mycroft enquired with a frown. “You left him in Franton? Really, Doctor, it would have been civil of him to let me know of his plans in the first place.”

“I know,” I said, apologetically. “I am sorry, Mycroft. It all happened rather quickly, and they are just now beginning to re-establish their relationship.”

“Hmm,” said the brother. He did not sound delighted by the news. Then: “Come, then, let us go up and see Sophronia.”

The lady was sitting up in bed, surrounded by pillows, flowers and dolls. She waved to me, smiling, as I entered the room.

“I trust I did not tear you away from your holiday,” said she. “I really am so sorry if I did.”

“Nonsense,” I told her, taking the chair by her bedside. “There is absolutely no need to apologise, my dear. How are you feeling?”

She patted her stomach. “We are surviving.” She pulled a face. “I was so frightened, John.”

“I know.” I touched her hand. “But it is good news, yes? You have been told to rest and not race around out of bed or do anything strenuous?”

She nodded.

“You should also not engage in physical relations for the time being, or douche, or, well, I expect your own doctor has explained this to you already.”

She nodded again, flushing.

“This conversation feels strange,” she smiled. “But I am so glad that I have such friends as you to take good care of me.”

“I shall always be here for you, my dear,” I said. “Do not ever worry on that account.”

Sophronia lay back against the pillows, her long hair spread out in tendrils. “Sherlock is still with Ulysses,” she said, as much a statement as enquiry.

“Yes. At least, I do hope so. We were unable to locate Ulysses this morning. But I expect he has returned by now.”

I heard a movement in the doorway and turned my head to find that Mycroft had disappeared.

“Is it very awkward between you?” Sophronia whispered.

I looked back to her. “Between the three of us? Yes, at first, but not so much now. Things seemed a little strange this morning, but I am placing the blame on our Champagne headaches.” I winked at her. She giggled.

“Look at all of these gifts,” said she, pointing to the flowers and stuffed dolls set out around her. “Family and friends are so kind.”

I remembered, then, and rummaged in my pocket.

“This is for you,” I said, handing her a small tissue-paper packet.

She rustled with the folds and drew out one of the seashell necklaces.

“Oh, John!” said she, “It is beautiful!” She threw her arms out to embrace me.

“You are most welcome,” I whispered. “Such a pretty thing, is it not?”

I sat by her side for an hour or two more. For long spells we enjoyed a companionable silence, then a remark or a question would occur to the one of us, and off we would mardle once more until the sky turned a dark blue and the fire burned low.

“Please stay for dinner, Doctor,” said Mycroft Holmes, re-entering the chamber just as I stood to collect my bag. “It is roast pheasant.”

I might have refused politely and set off upon my way, had it not been for the promise of pheasant against the grey thought of the cold cuts awaiting me at home.

“That is very kind of you, Mycroft,” I said. “I should be delighted.”

It was just we two in the dining room, with steaming tureens set out before us and a bottle of the finest red. We toasted each other to health and happiness and settled to our meal. Mycroft asked me many questions concerning his wife, as if regardless of the attention paid by her own doctor he should not be as trusted as well as I.

“From what your wife tells me, then all is well,” I said. “Naturally, I did not examine her as she has already received medical attention, although if you wish for a second opinion then I should be happy to oblige. But I believe a spell of bed rest is all that is required in this instance.”

“I do worry so,” confessed Mycroft Holmes. “As much as I worry about those fool brothers of mine. Ulysses appears to have overturned his house in a rage this morning.”

“Overturned it... in a rage?” I stared at my companion. “What do you mean? How do you know this?”

Mycroft tapped the side of his nose.

“Please, Doctor. I have my ways and means of keeping a watchful eye. When I overheard you mention to Sophronia that Ulysses could not be found, I extended my feelers, as it were. My charge reports that the ground floor rooms appear to be in a considerably broken state. Not a fight, no, for it seems that no furniture was overturned nor were the rugs displaced. But there are many items smashed.”

“How terrible,” I said, appalled. 

“Yes,” said he. “It is fortunate, therefore, that Sherlock is still in town. I have wired to him that he should investigate. However, knowing my brother I hardly expect a civil reply before tomorrow.”

“I hardly know if I should remain here in London, or travel back to Franton,” I said. “I am feeling rather torn between the two.”

“Send your own wire, if you are unsure,” replied Mycroft. “Or I can advise you of what Sherlock says in his return telegram. No point in rushing back there if all is settled within ten minutes.”

Which was truth enough, although the thought of what might have happened with Ulysses did subdue my appetite. It seemed clear to me that his early Sunday meeting with an acquaintance or friend had not gone quite as he had planned, and he had returned home to vent his frustration. I hoped that Holmes had managed to speak with him since then and that things should now be calmed. I resolved to send my own telegram the first thing in the morning. Baker Street was cold and lonely when I returned to our rooms late that evening. I lit the fire and turned up the lamps and settled myself as best I could, but I missed Holmes terribly, wishing he were here with me and not hundreds of miles adrift in a blustery seaside town.

The next morning, having heard no word from Mycroft, I went directly to the telegraph office.

MYCROFT INFORMS OF ALTERCATION STOP DO YOU WISH ME TO RETURN TO FRANTON STOP JW

Back by the fireside at 221B, I sampled a piece of Franton rock. _Good gracious_ , I thought, _now I know why they gave it that name. It is enough to break a man's jaw in twelve places._

A little after midday, I received a reply to my wire:

NO NEED TO MAKE SAME JOURNEY TWICE STOP AM RETURNING TODAY STOP WHAT DO YOU MEAN BY ALTERCATION STOP TELL MYCROFT TO GO TO BLAZES STOP SH

I shook my head at the last line of the telegram. At least Holmes would be with me by the end of the day. At least I had that to look forward to. I wondered what might have happened in the interim.

I was glad of the cold cuts and salad for my supper that evening. By eight o'clock, my friend had still not arrived home. By ten o'clock I was in bed, cold and fretful. A little after ten-thirty I heard the rattle of the latch and a foot upon the hall stair. Five minutes later the door to our bedroom was slowly opened, and Holmes appeared. I twisted around to him, blinking in the sudden light from the gas lamp.

“You are late. Did all go well? Did you find Ulysses?”

He shucked off his clothes and crawled into the space I had made for him beside me.

“Tomorrow,” said he. “All of that must be tomorrow.” He sighed deeply, thrust his head against my shoulder as if so very weary. I wrapped my arms around him and we fell into some semblance of sleep.


	9. Evidently Volatile

Streaks of cold light from the chinked bedroom window curtains. The sound of running water from the bathroom on the first floor. I grunted softly, rolled over on my back. I was alone in the bed. The bedside clock proclaimed it to be half-past eight. Half-past eight! We had overslept. It would not do to idle any longer, as utterly tempting as that thought might be. Swinging my legs from under the covers and onto the floor, I stood, yawning, stretching. Wrapping one of Holmes's old blue dressing gowns around me, I opened the door and dragged myself down the stairs. The bathroom door was locked. I rapped at a panel.

“Holmes, is that you in there? Let me in.”

A splash of water, an arm leaning across from the tub and the releasing twist of the key in the lock.

I slipped inside and locked the door behind me. The room was filled with steam. My friend was laying back within the tub, his arms on either side of it, his black hair plastered flat, his eyes half closed, regarding me.

“Good morning,” said he. 

“That water looks delightful,” I said. “May I?”

Holmes hesitated for a second, then nodded his assent. He shifted in the water, making room for me. I untied the robe, slipped it from my shoulders, pulled my nightshirt up and over my head. I paused.

“Against you, or facing you?” I asked.

He answered with a tap on his chest. I smiled. I stepped into the tub, turning around and easing myself down in the water to come to rest with my back against his front. His right arm curled around me to drape across my stomach. I sighed happily.

“It has been a while since we last did this,” I said.

Holmes hummed in reply. His fingers gently caressed my wet skin. I stroked the strong legs that stretched out on either side of me. We were quiet for several minutes like this, absorbed in our own thoughts.

“Sophronia is recovering from her alarm,” I said, eventually, as it struck me that my friend had not made mention of this since his return.

“I am pleased to hear it.”

“So, will you tell me what happened yesterday?”

I heard him exhale into my hair. The stroking ceased. It seemed that he tensed around me. I felt him make a concerted effort to relax.

“I met with Ulysses. We spoke, and said our farewells. I left Franton and returned to you.”

I twisted around as far as I could, to look up into my friend's eyes which were now fully closed.

“But what on earth should have caused your brother to vandalise his own rooms? And where did you find him? And when? Did you speak for very long? You were so late returning home.”

He tutted, shifted irritably in the water which lapped and splashed at the sides of the tub.

“None of that is important right now,” said he. “We shall speak of it later, perhaps. Don't go on about it, John, I beg you.” Then he paused, as if in thought. He began to speak, abruptly changed his mind, then tried again. “Did you... enjoy our... experience the other night?”

“Yes, of course I did,” I replied, puzzled. “Did it seem to you that I did not?”

He ignored me. “Did you enjoy it more than usual?” I looked around at him again, but he caught me and returned me to my place. “Stop wriggling, John. Did you?”

“I... don't know?” I offered, perplexed. “It was over very quickly, I remember that. But we were both a little intoxicated, otherwise I think that we should not have even considered doing it at all, in your brother's house. Do you really not remember it?”

Holmes grunted, kissed the top of my head. “As you say, we were intoxicated.” His right hand strayed down into the bathwater. His fingers sought and found my prick; wrapped themselves around it, pulled gently, meditatively on it. I could not help but moan softly from the sweet sensation.

“Describe to me how I touched you the other night,” he whispered in my ear.

“You did not touch me,” I panted, paying scant attention to words, caught up in the bliss of what my friend's hand was doing. “Not where you are now, at any rate,” I chuckled. “Oh god, love, that feels good, don't stop.”

He continued to frig me. “I'm touching you now,” he said, his voice low.

“Yes, you are, god, yes.”

We eased ourselves down further into the water. I repositioned myself until I was able to feel Holmes's erection up firm against my rump. Desire burned through me. But here, in the bath?! We would surely cause a tidal wave upon the floor.

“Holmes, I want --” I began.

He jabbed at me with his hips. Still his hand kept up its torment upon me. 

“Oh dear christ,” I gasped. I squirmed, attempted to lift myself, to impale myself upon him that he might take me like that, right here.

“John, no,” said he, “not here.”

“I want it,” I groaned. “You're tormenting me.”

“But that's what you like, isn't it?” he whispered, nipping my neck. The water was slapping dangerously close to the rim of the bathtub by now. I could feel the coil in my belly, my release likely seconds away. I anchored down, rubbed my cleft against him as best I could. I heard him growl in frustration. At the last I managed to manoeuvre an inch of him inside me; rocked him desperately. He squeezed hard on my prick; I came: a shout, a curse, god knows what else. Threads of viscous white across the surface of the water, my chest, his hand. He pulled out of me quickly.

“You don't want to come?” I panted.

“Not just now,” said he. He kissed my shoulders. He washed me clean with the remaining water in the tub.

“We have made the most wretched mess of the floor,” I said, looking over the side at the swill. 

He did not reply. I turned back once more, but whatever expression he had wrought on his face was smoothed a fraction of a second later. Later, I even managed to convince myself that it had not been there at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We sat down to breakfast a half-hour thereafter, our landlady fussing around us with bacon and toast. She scolded us roundly for our late rising: _“I have a hairdressing appointment in town, Mr. Holmes, and I should be there instead of here, and I did inform you of this last Thursday.”_

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” said Holmes. “And Dr. Watson and I would also wish to apologise for the state of the bathroom.”

“The _bathroom?_ ” She bustled away. Ten seconds later we heard in no small detail exactly what she thought of us. 

“We had better not do that again, John,” my friend said, half smiling despite himself. 

I reached out and touched his hand. He looked at me questioningly.

“I am beginning to wish that we had never visited Franton,” I said, rubbing the soft pad of his thumb. “For I see now that the whole business has disturbed you dreadfully. Ulysses is not the role model that you remembered him to be. He is evidently still volatile, as we know from the damage he dealt to his house for whatever reason. Holmes, you should not feel that it is your duty to remain in contact with him, if you would rather not. Does he expect you to? What did he _say?_ ”

Holmes stared down at his hand, seemingly fascinated by the impromptu massage.

“Ulysses expects nothing,” he said quietly, finally. “He regrets his behaviour, which he assures me was not premeditated. I do think it most likely that we shall not see him again, for one reason and another. It was certainly an eventful weekend, shall we say.”

“It had its moments,” I agreed. “Will you wire Mycroft to let him know?”

My friend nodded.

He left our rooms shortly thereafter, presumably on that same errand. I took the opportunity of retrieving the packet of Franton thimbles, tying them around with a yellow ribbon and leaving them for our long-suffering landlady to find when she returned home from her town trip. That done, I lit my pipe and picked up the morning paper. I had read the halfway through it before Holmes returned. He had bought for me a box of my favourite milk chocolates. An apology? Whatever: no matter. I kissed him, thanked him for his kind thought. He read through his mail and sat down to compose several replies. And so it was that we spent our morning; as if nothing so very out of the ordinary had really happened at all.

Which I suppose, looking at it rationally, it had not.

Holmes received a reply telegram from Mycroft after luncheon. He frowned, screwed it up, threw it into the fire. A second one arrived shortly before five. It met the same fate as the first.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

He shook his head. 

“Does Mycroft expect an answer?” I persisted.

“Most probably,” said he. “But he is not getting one.”

“Does it relate to Sophronia?”

“No, John, it does not. Do not worry yourself about it. What is Mrs. Hudson preparing for dinner, do you know?”

Mrs. Hudson, in the event, was preparing a steak and kidney pie; a dish that I have always considered to be a wonderful comfort food, and one particularly warming against the poor weather that seemed to have followed us home. Once we had eaten and the table had been cleared, Holmes and I moved to the sofa of one accord. There, my friend curled up against me and rubbed his cheek upon my shoulder, much as a cat that is anxious to please. He toyed with the buttons of my waistcoat.

“Still too many buttons, John,” said he.

I chuckled.

“You are quiet this evening,” I told him. “You have been so all day, in fact. Is something still troubling you?”

“I'm not sure,” he replied.

I knew from past experience that I would get no revelation out of him for pressing the harder. It seemed that whatever it was would resolve itself with time. But I still wondered what the issue might be with Mycroft, and why my friend was so reluctant to communicate. Yet that was the nature of their relationship, for the most part. It was thus, then, that we spent our evening: speaking little, but intimate and tender, with soft kisses and caresses. When we retired to bed I lay my head upon Holmes's chest and listened to its strong and steady heartbeat, while his fingers stroked my hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We should have slept in the following morning also, had it not been for the persistent knocking upon the front door at 8 o'clock. Mrs. Hudson tapped discreetly at our bedroom door; we were already halfway dressed and ready.

“Doctor,” said she, “Mycroft Holmes is here. I have shown him into the sitting-room.”

“What can Mycroft be wanting at this time of day?” I said to my friend as we fastened our ties. “It must be about those telegrams.”

“Damn the telegrams,” said Holmes. “And damn Mycroft.” He sat down on the bed to tie his laces. “You should stay here while I speak to him, John.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind,” I replied indignantly. “If it is bad news, then I wish to hear it at the same time as you. We have no secrets from each other, after all.”

Holmes said nothing. He stood up, straightened his front and made for the stairs. I grabbed my cufflinks from the dish on the bedside cabinet and was not far behind him. Mycroft Holmes was standing by the unlit hearth, a rolled-up paper in his right hand. He turned around as we barrelled into the room.

“Hmm,” said he. “All discretion as usual.”

“Shut up, Mycroft,” said Holmes. “Whatever brings you here so early?”

“You did not reply to my telegrams,” said the elder brother. “Which I find intolerably rude. They were _important_ , Sherlock.”

My friend threw himself into his armchair, scowling.

“I did not consider them important,” said he. “I saw Ulysses. I spoke to him.”

“Then perhaps you might like to explain this,” said Mycroft. He unfolded the paper he was carrying – it was some regional broadsheet – and thrust it under his brother's nose. Holmes accepted it reluctantly.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” he enquired. He scanned the columns, then one quite evidently caught his eye for he now stared fixedly at the page.

“You found it,” said Mycroft Holmes. He eased himself into the chair opposite his brother, steepled his fingers and exhaled a long sigh.

“What is it?” I asked. Neither of them looked my way. “Sherlock. _Mycroft_. What is it?”

Holmes finished examining the short article. His expression was unreadable. He held the paper out to me: _“The Franton Evening News”_. I took it and looked to where he was pointing. It read:

_LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD: WASHED UP ON SHORE._

I read on, incredulous. I looked up again.

“But this is --” I began.

“Yes,” said Mycroft. “It is.”


	10. A Great Many Things

I reached the end of the newspaper article. There was relatively little detail: the body washed up upon the beach was found at early light by a shoreside fisherman. The body had been identified as one Jonathan Briggs, carpenter and resident of the town of Franton. Investigation ongoing. I placed the paper on the sofa and sat down beside it, looking from my friend to Mycroft Holmes and back to the former. Holmes lit a cigarette, his attention devoted entirely to the studious smoking of it, his eyes cast down. His brother was sat as a statue, regarding him steadily.

“I am so sorry for your loss,” I said to them both, feeling wretched and helpless. “Holmes, are you able to explain _any_ of this to us?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “A little, at any rate.”

He stubbed out the butt of his cigarette and set about lighting a fresh one. 

“Should I call down to Mrs. Hudson for tea?” I suggested, at a loss how best to make myself useful.

“I do not want _tea_ ,” said Mycroft Holmes. “What I _want_ is to hear precisely _what_ occurred in Franton these past few days. Sherlock. Please. If you would be so kind.”

Holmes tapped off the ash from the end of his cigarette and, leaning upon the arm of the chair, cupped his chin in his left hand.

“Ulysses stole from me,” he said at last, after an interminable interlude.

“He stole from you?” said Mycroft. “I admit, that is not such a great surprise. What did he take?”

“That which was not his,” my friend replied slowly. He then continued:

“As John will confirm, Ulysses was not at home when we awoke on the Sunday morning. I sent John back to the hotel, while I waited to see if our brother might return. He did not. Therefore I left and rejoined John at the hotel for breakfast. We received your telegram, Mycroft, and John here was kind enough to return immediately to London. I set out once more to look for Ulysses, but it took a great while, as he had not returned home. I spoke to several of his neighbours, but they had no inkling of where he might be.”

“He must have returned home at some point, however,” I said, “in order to toss his possessions around his rooms in that strange fury.”

Holmes shot me a glance. “Hmm, yes,” said he. Then:

“I made enquiries at the local public houses and with several of the carpenters' workshops around town. Early the following afternoon, I was thus armed with certain information: namely that Ulysses's preferred lunchtime watering hole was at The Testy Tater on the corner of Needle Road. As luck would have it, as I approached the place I spied him leaving by a side door. He was quite dreadfully drunk – heaven knows if he had been there all that time since Sunday morning. He did not make for home straightaway, but instead set off along the promenade. I followed him, curious to see where he might go. Well, he did not meet with anyone, but staggered over and across to the Pier that's nearest to there. I suppose that he felt like a breath of fresh air and a look out to sea, and try to clear his head. At the far end of the pier, he came to a halt. There was no-one around, for it was the late afternoon by now. He must have heard my footsteps on the boarding, for he swung around and saw me.

“We spoke for several minutes. The wind at the end of the pier was strong; Ulysses kept swaying around in it as if he might fall to the deck. At last he shuffled across to a side railing. On the other side of that railing, of course, was the sea, for we were at the extreme end of the pier. We talked a little longer, and--”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft interrupted, “did the two of you argue?”

Holmes tutted in loud exasperation.

“Yes, of _course_ we argued, Mycroft, you bloody fool. Did you imagine that we might sit down and play a game of marbles? The argument came to a head, but at no point became violent. Perhaps ten minutes after we began our dialogue, I turned away back down the pier and left him to it, still propped against the railing and mumbling to himself. I collected my bags from the hotel, settled the bill, and caught the last train back to London, where John will attest that I arrived home quite late that same night.”

“That is true,” I said. “You came in at around ten-thirty.”

Holmes nodded. “So I fear that our brother, in his drunken state, overbalanced at some point from the railing and fell away into the sea, very likely colliding his head with a wooden joist in the process and drowning unnoticed by anyone. And I declare that that is all of it.”

“Not quite all,” said Mycroft. “Did Ulysses return that which he had stolen?”

My friend scrabbled for a third cigarette. “No,” he said. “That can never be returned.”

“I see. Hum. Oh, Dr. Watson – do you know, I think I actually _could_ do with some of that tea you suggested a short while ago. Could you possibly...?”

Happy to be of some small assistance at last, I nodded and headed down to see Mrs. Hudson and to make my request. I dallied there in the kitchen while our landlady prepared the water and the pot and, after some minutes, loaded the tray for me to carry back to the sitting-room.

I edged open the door and pushed myself through. I confess that I stopped short and stared. For Mycroft Holmes was standing there upon the rug, holding his younger brother in a tight embrace which my friend was not protesting; indeed, peculiarly, he seemed to welcome the invasion.

Mycroft turned around to me as I stood there dumbly in the doorway.

“Even brothers on the eternal cusp of familial war do occasionally hug,” he said. “So Doctor, do not stare at us as if we had each grown a second head.”

“I shall pour the tea,” I said softly. And I did so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Holmes returned briefly to Franton that very same day to provide a statement and assist the local authorities where he might. Again, he caught the late train home. This time I was waiting up with a book and a short whisky nightcap, prepared to discuss the whole awful matter if my friend so wished. Holmes did not wish. He was subdued from the various strains of the day and wanted only his pipe and the warmth of the fire. But then:

“I brought you this. Should you want it,” he said.

And he produced from his overcoat pocket the small wooden carriage and horse carving. He placed it beside me.

“I had forgotten about that,” I said, touched. “Thank you, love. A memento and a kind gesture of your brother.”

Holmes grimaced. “I really don't know why I picked it up and brought it home,” said he. “I just knew that you liked it, and well, it's all there is of him now. I'd rather you didn't display it anywhere too prominently.”

He sat back down in his chair then, and relit his pipe. 

“I won't want to talk much of this in the future, John,” said he. “I hope you can understand that.”

“That is all right,” I said. “I do understand.”

My friend continued.

“At the very least, however, this has helped me remember all that I have, and everything I take for granted. I really should treasure every day, instead of so often being mad and impossible.”

I smiled. 

“Yes, you can smile,” said he, catching my expression. “But that is what I am. You tell me it often enough.”

“I should not ever want to change you,” I said softly.

“I could be better,” said Holmes. “I could be a great many things that I am not.”

“I don't care. You are everything to me as you are. That is all that matters.”

“Come here,” he said.

I moved to his chair and sat on the arm of it. I threaded my fingers through his black thatch of hair.

“Do you have any idea just how much I love you,” said Holmes. “And how the thought of ever losing you terrifies me into madness?”

I leaned sideways and kissed the crown of his head.

“You will never lose me,” I told him. “We shall be together when we're old and white-haired and skidding around on walking sticks.”

He laughed. I realised then just how very much I had missed the sound of that laugh. How long had it been? Only days?

“I am looking forward to that,” he said. “Perhaps not so much the skidding part.”

“Fortunately,” I continued, running my hand down his chest, “ _that_ remains a great many years away.” I waved my hand in front of him. “This ring, remember. Life partners. And I always keep my vows.”

Holmes tapped out his pipe. Taking my hand, he stood and pulled me towards his old bedroom door.

“I need you this minute,” said he.

And he knows very well that I am never able to refuse a man in need.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next few days were thoughtful and poignant, as Holmes and I each made our own sense out of all that had occurred. For my own part I felt a certain sadness that the reunion had not ended as it might. My friend would speak of it no further and yet, gradually, through much attentive love and care, his mood improved and he returned to some familiarity of his former self. I treated him to dinner at Goldini's on the Saturday evening. We sat across from one another and sipped red Burgundy, and tasted the most exquisite dish of roasted pork as I remember ever having. It was with incredulity and amusement that as we were about to crack our spoons into the sugared vanilla tart, that the main restaurant door opened and in walked Inspector Gregson with his companion, the young Victor Burroughs. Gregson's eyes widened at the sight of us.

“So _here_ is where you have been hiding!” he exclaimed, twirling his hat in his hands and unbuttoning his coat. “We have not seen you at the Yard for over a week. We eventually decided that you had retired to the country to caretake bees. Ha! Ha!”

“Now why on earth should I wish to do that,” my friend replied, smiling. “What a ridiculous notion. No, Gregson, I have been otherwise occupied this week. But have no fret. I shall be bothering your good self and Inspector Lestrade by the beginning of next week, no doubt.” Holmes nodded to Gregson's companion. “Hello there, Victor. I do hope that you enjoyed your few days in Paris?”

The young man beamed. “We surely did, Mr. Holmes, and thank you for asking. The weather was a little... damp... but it was delightful all the same. You should visit Paris yourself some day, with Dr. Watson.”

“And this is what I keep telling him,” I interjected. “But it needs a half dozen fellows to repeat it ad nauseum until he pays any attention.”

We would have invited them to join us at our table but for the fact that we were almost through. Instead, we wished them a merry evening and watched as they were shown to a discreet booth for two.

“They are very much in love, are they not,” I mused. “It is easy to tell by the way that they look at each other.”

“Yes,” said Holmes. “But don't be gooey about it, John. I wonder how much they can have in common, or is it all just about physical attraction.”

“Oh, you,” I scolded. “You are as 'gooey' as the next man. Yes, you are, Sherlock Holmes, don't pucker your face up like that. I know better.” I touched his hand under the table. “Some connections run deeper than a shared love of Mozart or a kinship with Poe.”

He looked at me. “John,” said he, “if you ever let it be known to the world at large that I have turned into a romantic, then my revenge shall be swift and terrible, I do assure you.”

I chuckled at him.

“A romantic _and_ an uncle-to-be,” I said. “Fancy that.”

Holmes shook his head, spooning the last of his dessert up from the dish.

“Two absurdities in one sentence,” said he. “With the latter taking effect in approximately six short months from now.”

“You will adore it,” I told him.

He smiled at me then, his eyes all a-twinkle.

“Yes,” he said. “I most probably shall.”

 

\- END -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thanks to everyone who made the journey with me through this story, despite all of the grievous angst. I turned the angst up to #11. I beefed up the grief. Ay caramba, I sauteed the suffering. You get the idea. I like happy endings. :)


End file.
